


The Orb-Weaver

by redwinehouse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Fanfiction, M/M, Murder Mystery, Romance, Sheriarty - Freeform, Smut, psychotic jim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-12-30 13:51:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 39,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12110109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redwinehouse/pseuds/redwinehouse
Summary: The man who has been haunting Sherlock's dreams has risen like Christ himself, but he is no savior. James Moriarty is a spider who has been torturing Sherlock's soul ever since he put a gun to his mouth on the roof of St. Bart's. However, he does not come to spread his deadly poison. Instead, he wants to enlist Sherlock in a personal investigation. Contrary to the belief of fools, James Moriarty is no Black Widow, but an Orb-Weaver, who catches people in his endless web that he spins in the shadows. He ensnares everyone, but none so much as Sherlock Holmes, the detective who falls for him.





	1. He Has Risen

**Author's Note:**

> While Sherlock has gone to Serbia, I am completely ignoring seasons 3 and 4 because the simple formatting of the first two seasons was more enjoyable for me.
> 
> Let's do this!

“One more bite and I’ll have to roll you out of here,” Sherlock taunted, taking a sip of his tea. 

Mycroft’s hand stopped, the morsel of cheesecake now hovering right before his mouth. He put his fork down and leaned back in his chair, a smug smirk playing on his lips. 

”I didn’t realize how much you cared about my health,” Mycroft said, interlacing his fingers on the white table cloth. 

”Just enough to exploit it,” Sherlock smiled cheekily. 

”I do enjoy our talks.” Mycroft popped the cheesecake in his mouth. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Why did you drag me out to this place anyway?” He gestured to the small café they were sitting in. “It’s easy to see you wanting to stuff your gob, but wanting me here while you’re doing it is not.” 

Mycroft sighed and looked out of the bay window they were seated in front of. “You know, for a consulting detective you’re quite thick. Should I call your boss?” 

Sherlock snorted. “I don’t have a boss. _Consulting_ dete-“ Sherlock realized Mycroft was merely getting a rise out of him and he immediately stopped. 

Mycroft clearly knew of his realization because he gave him a satisfied smile. “Mother may I?” Sherlock only grunted, which Mycroft took as a sign to proceed. He slid his laptop out onto the table. “There have been a disturbing amount of hot spots springing up over the globe of high crime.” He tapped a key and dozens of red dots appeared across all countries. 

Sherlock scoffed. “If you’re trying to make me donate money to kids in Ethiopia it’s not going to work. It’s not like it’s a third world country.” Sherlock waved a waiter over for more tea. He was on his third cup. 

Mycroft closed his eyes. “Ethiopia is at least two thousand years behind the rest of the developed world because their country has been torn to shreds by communism for the past forty years. Many have to forage for food and those who _do_ find work live on £100 a year or less.” He opened his eyes lazily. 

”Glad I don’t live in Ethiopia, then,” Sherlock sipped his refreshed cup. 

The occupants at the neighboring table turned at the sound of Mycroft’s irritated sigh. 

”There have been reports of the Federal Chancellor of Germany falling prey to extortion-“ 

”Not my problem,” Sherlock dismissed. 

”The opium market in China has just combusted. Drug gangs are more violent than ever and some long standing empires are crumbling –“ 

”Don’t care.” 

”More important people murdered than I can count-“ 

”If they’re not here they won’t be missed.” 

Mycroft put his laptop away. Folding his hands, he said, “Dear brother, these are more than just happy accidents.” 

At this Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He looked at Mycroft and realized that behind the smug shell, his brother looked haggard and… 

”You’re afraid,” Sherlock said softly. This was not a look Mycroft wore often, if at all. It raised Sherlock’s pulse just a tad, enough that he could feel his heart beat against his chest. Perhaps this _was_ interesting. He pushed his tea aside and steepled his fingers. “You have my attention.” 

”I am concerned,” Mycroft corrected, his voice notably quieter. “The catalyst has to be nothing short of a monstrosity if it can affect such a high tier of crime in that many places at once.” 

”And how does this concern me?” 

Mycroft took a deep breath. He was hesitant, and unsure. The words spilled from his lips questioningly, “It concerns you because we have dealt with this sort of enigma before.” He opened his eyes and gave Sherlock a hard stare. The Iceman had finally put on his mask. 

A sudden coldness gripped Sherlock’s core. He subconsciously clenched his fists to stop his hands from trembling. “Are you daft?” 

”I’m quite aware of how it sounds.” 

Sherlock snorted. “Is this what it’s like dealing with me? After this you are never allowed to condescend to me again.” Sherlock sighed. “I wonder who I am going to tell first.” Sherlock and gotten to his feet and slipped on his coat. The scars on his back began to burn and the doors in his mind palace that he had worked so hard to lock tried to burst open. “That monster is currently dancing in hell.” He wrapped his scarf around his neck. 

Mycroft looked at his brother sadly. “I thought you didn’t believe in hell?” 

Sherlock flipped his collar up. “For him I do.” Without another word, he left the cafe. 

~*~

Sherlock raised his has hand to hail a cab. When a black car smoothly pulled up to the pavement, he opened the door and slid in. 

”221b Baker Street,” he said before the cabbie could even let out a breath. As the car merged into traffic, Sherlock pressed his head against the window and watched the people of London. God, how he hated them. He watched as they walked aimlessly, their greatest trouble being a death in the family or a divorce. He rolled his eyes. 

Primitive. 

He saw a mother walk hand in hand with her young daughter, clad in a pink jumper and rain boots. She was smiling down at her in adoration as the girl purposely jumped in filthy puddles. Was mud suddenly cute because her child was the one splashing it? And to think she reproduced for pleasure, the exact motive one had when buying a dog. Sherlock huffed and turned away. He couldn’t handle the ludicrously. 

As the rest of the world clogged the streets with their aimless, pointless troubles, Sherlock Holmes sat in the cab coming to terms with what his brother had proposed; 

James Moriarty was alive and he was active. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against the front seat. He had begun to feel nauseous. Bringing one trembling hand to the other, he steepled his fingers. 

Two years. Two years ago he had watched his arch nemesis put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. Two years ago he had been psychologically toyed with and tortured. Two years ago he was a marionette dancing in whichever way Moriarty flicked his wrists. Two years ago he was forced to fake his suicide to prevent the death of everyone important to him. His scars began to burn again. He had spent two years dismantling Moriarty’s global network. 

But had it been for nothing? Mycroft had certainly suggested so. 

Sherlock ran a hand down his face. Needing to hear a voice of reason, he took out his phone and searched through his contacts. Finding the one he wanted, he jabbed it with his thumb. It rang several times before it went through. 

_”What?”_ John Watson answered irritably. 

Sherlock immediately sat up and raised an eyebrow. “Who pissed in your cereal this morning?” 

John huffed. “Oh, come off it! You’re the one being a dick.” 

”I’m well aware that my dry sense of wit is complex enough to always go over your short head, but I’m not following.” 

The was a shuffling sound and a grunt on John’s end until he answered, “You texted me about ten minutes ago saying that if I didn’t get two full barrels of apples at the farmer’s market today you would infect all of my jumpers with anthrax!” 

”I – what?” Sherlock snapped. “How juvenile do you think I am? That obviously wasn’t me.” 

John snorted. “You swapped the mayo out with shampoo last week because I accidently used your bath towel.” 

”Sherlock smirked. “You’re comparing _apples_ to oranges.” 

John hung up. 

Sherlock chuckled, slipping his phone back into his pocket. The call had certainly served its purpose. John’s blog must have been hacked by a fan again. It had happened only once before and it was by a sixteen year old super fan who had no friends and nothing better to do. Sherlock wondered if he could get in contact with this person and personally thank him or her. 

The cab pulled up next to the flat and Sherlock got out. After paying his fare, he turned and made his way into 221b. As he walked up the stairs he began to take his coat off, feeling hot from the trek. He was fumbling with the final button when he reached the door to his flat. He was about to unclasp it, but his fingers froze. 

Everything had become extremely cold. 

Sherlock paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob and his keys dangling from his fingers. A shiver ran from the nape of his neck all the way down his spinal cord, where it quickly shot to the nerve endings in his fingers and toes. He shook his head, brushing off the feeling and unlocking the door. 

Electricity. That was what the living room of 221b Baker Street felt like as Sherlock stepped into his flat. It was as if he had walked into an electric storm. The hairs on the back of his neck raised and goose bumps broke out all over his arms. He slowly slipped off his coat, trying his best not to shiver. He would have to talk to Mrs. Hudson about the heater. 

There was a clatter in the kitchen, making Sherlock jump. “John?” he asked, taking a few hesitant steps forward. When there was no answer, Sherlock called again, “John?” 

Knowing that he was getting absolutely nowhere with pitiful cries, Sherlock entered the kitchen and his knees went weak. Luckily, he was able to lean against the wall and hide such a pathetic bodily response. 

His eyes were the first thing Sherlock saw. They were two dead black pits that consumed whatever soul they fell upon, yet they were as alive as a wildfire. He was still clean cut, his form dressed in sharp edges and expensive fabric. Where there should have been a gaping, bloody hole was hair meticulously combed back, not a single one out of place. He was reclining on one of the kitchen chairs, his legs elegantly crossed on the table. 

James Moriarty gave Sherlock a lazy smirk. “I’ve got the wings of heaven on my shoes, Sherlock.” He slowly raised one of his hands and wiggled his fingers. “Lucy, I’m _hooooooooooooooome!"_ When Sherlock said nothing, Moriarty snickered. “Cat got your tongue?” He stuck his tongue out playfully, widening his eyes. 

”You’re dead,” Sherlock croaked, breaking out into a cold sweat. His limbs had gone rigid. 

Moriarty leaned back and raised an eyebrow. With pursed lips he looked down at his chest. “Noooo, don’t think I am.” He looked back up. “God, this is a stupid fruit.” 

Sherlock realized that he was cradling a pineapple in his lap. He gave it a few tosses. “Thank _God_ I asked the pet to go out and get some apples.” Moriarty held the pineapple up and scrunched his nose. “How the hell do you even eat this?” He jabbed his finger at the fruit. 

”You’re dead,” Sherlock repeated, holding the door frame so hard that his knuckles had gone white. 

Moriarty rolled his eyes and groaned before he banged his forehead on the table. “We _already_ went _over_ this Sherlock!” He rested his cheek on the table and dropped the pineapple on the ground. “Have you grown ordinary since I’ve been gone?” He sat up and began to pray. “ _Please_ don’t tell me that’s the case because I might actually have to really off myself.” 

”That would be preferable.” Sherlock said dryly, finally feeling steady. 

A smirk slowly spread across Moriarty’s smirk. “There’s my boy,” he whispered. He stood up and brushed passed Sherlock, making his way into the living room. 

”I see you haven’t changed a single thing since my last visit.” Moriarty’s upper lip curled as he inspected the drapes. “Still no taste.” 

”I’m guessing you didn’t come back from the grave to critique my interior design.” Sherlock followed him into the living room and crossed his arms. 

Moriarty turned around, his eyes alight. “No, but I’m still no less offended.” He casually put his hands in his pockets. “I actually came here for your help.” 

Sherlock was taken aback. The only thing more shocking than James Moriarty coming back from the dead was James Moriarty asking for his help. The concept wasn’t even in Sherlock’s realm of thinking. The neurons in his brain were sparking, trying to deduce Moriarty’s motive. There was nothing this man couldn’t do. He couldn’t even _die_. What would he turn to _him_ for? 

“Ah, I see that big brain working!” Moriarty grinned fiendishly. “Surprised big bad James Moriarty is at your doorstep asking for help?” His eyes went wide and he jumped, frantically looking to his right and left as if checking to see if anyone was listening. Then he leapt forward and slapped his hand over Sherlock’s mouth. His eyes were wide and bulging. “Don’t tell anyone, okay? I still want the kids to think I’m cool.” He slowly pulled back and smiled lazily, putting his hands back in his pockets. 

Although Sherlock was looking at Moriarty coolly, he couldn’t get his thoughts straight. The man’s psychosis was seeping into his muscles and rattling his bones. He was no less terrifying than he had been two years ago. He had haunted his thoughts and choked him while he was dead. What will he do to Sherlock now that he was alive? 

”And what if I don't?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

Moriarty shook his head and tutted. “Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,” he sighed, looking at the ground. “Why do you even bother with such a question? It’s just a waste of our time.” he looked back up. “I kill everyone you know. Right now. And there is no fake suicide copout this time. I had a feeling that if I caught you by surprise, you wouldn’t have any time to _scheme._ ” He lifted his hands to Sherlock’s face and wiggled his fingers. 

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. “And what is it that I would be helping you with?” He looked at Moriarty with forced indifference. 

Moriarty was gazing out of the window, the sun giving him an elegant dramatic silhouette. “Do you remember when I said, ‘you should see me in a crown’?” he asked dreamily. 

”I do.” 

”What do you think about the Oval Office?” 

Sherlock tilted his head. “You want to be president of the United States?” he snorted. “You have certainly knocked a few screws loose since we’ve last seen each other. Are you sure nothing went through your brain?” 

”No, you idiot!” Moriarty snapped, looking over his shoulder. “Well, not _technically._ ” He turned and languidly began to circle Sherlock. “I had a candidate, Roger Andrews, in my pocket. Family man, well off, beloved, smart, and crooked as the day is long.” Moriarty took his hand out and began counting his fingers. “Money laundering, drug pushing, theft, I even heard he liked to keep the company of the ladies who hang out on corners.” 

”Let’s skip the love letter,” Sherlock quipped. 

Moriarty stopped in front of Sherlock. He placed a hand over his heart and closed his eyes. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed you, Sherlock Holmes.” He opened his eyes and his face softened. “Truly.” 

Sherlock believed him. 

”Now, my little buddy was going to win because of election fraud, when suddenly,” Moriarty lifted his arms up and shrugged, blinking rapidly, “the fucker was murdered! So now I’m here looking like a fucking moron. It’s quite embarrassing. I’m currently looking for a replacement which, if we’re being honest, won’t take very long. But I’m not a happy boy, Sherlock. I need you to find this bloke. James Moriarty can’t run the world when he is made a fool of.” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “The only thing you run is your mind, and you can hardly manage that. They make medication for people like you. The only world that will be yours is a padded cell where you will be chained to like a stray dog after I take you down.” 

In a flash, Moriarty was a hair’s breath away from Sherlock’s face. His face had twisted into a demented smile. His eyes bulged out of his head. Sherlock could count every small vein. 

”I just came back from the dead, Sherlock,” Moriarty whispered, their noses brushing. “In a sense, I have, what do stupid religious people call it?” Moriarty scrunched his face “ _risen._ If you thought little James Moriarty was a tough guy back in the day, then you should be QUAVERING IN YOUR CHEAP SHOES!” he shouted, hands clamping down on Sherlock’s ears. 

Sherlock remained stoic, giving the criminal his best icy glare. 

The anger in the Moriarty’s eyes immediately extinguished and his face became seductive. “Do you remember when you called me a spider, Sherlock?” he whispered lustfully. “You and every other ordinary mind immediately thought of a black widow or a tarantula.” Moriarty shook his head and tutted, his warm breath caressing Sherlock’s lips. “I’m an orb-weaver Sherlock. I am always making a new web in the dark. You can’t stop it, no matter how hard you try. The only one who can put an end to me is me, when I gobble it all up by sunset and start again. _I have absolute power._ ” Moriarty looked at Sherlock’s lips and gave an impish smile before stepping back. “Andrews was here on a visit to make him look diplomatic when he was killed, so chop chop.” 

He walked to the door of the flat and turned the knob. With a final glance he said, “Thank John for the apples. I’ll come pick them up later.” With that he was gone, leaving Sherlock alone in his flat, stunned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Moriarty2017


	2. It Begins

James Moriarty sauntered out of 221b Baker Street like he owned the world, which was quite easy for him to do because he did. A smiled played on his lips that every person who passed him mistook as an indication of innocent happiness. James Moriarty was happy – thrilled, actually, but far from innocent. He slipped into the sleek black car that was waiting for him at the curb. With a flick of his wrist, the driver put it in gear and he was on his way. 

”Did everything go as planned?” Sebastian Moran asked 

Moriarty smirked, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “In the palm of my hand, Seb. In the palm _of my hand.”_

Moran raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t that take away from his intelligence? It seems like a waste of time.” 

”Everyone is below me, Seb.” Moriarty looked out his window, watching 221b getting smaller and smaller. “I’ll only be disappointed if he doesn’t catch on.” 

~*~

John Watson decided that he hated his best friend as he sat in the tube with his two giant barrels of apples. They were so big and heavy that he had to roll them down the street to get back home. What made matters even worse was that he couldn’t even take a cab back down to the flat. There was no way he could fit two monstrous barrels of apples in a car. So there he was, packed in between god knows how many people in a dirty train car with more fruit than he knew what to do with. 

Why did Sherlock even want the apples? He had been racking his memory throughout his entire journey and he couldn’t think of a single instance when the detective even _touched_ an apple, let alone eat one. What’s more, why would he need hundreds of them? The only conclusion John could reach was that they were for an experiment. Christ, would that be annoying. Was he going to analyze different gun shots by shooting an apple placed on his head? Was he going to load them into a canon and blow them into the wall? 

John buried his face in his hands and groaned. His day had been absolutely dreadful. 

He only lifted his head when the train came to a halt at his stop. He rolled his barrels out of the tube, earning many glares and curse words from the people around him, but he really didn’t give a damn. 

”Oh, fuck me sideways,” he muttered, looking up at the staircase that he needed to climb to get outside. He glanced at the barrels and again at the staircase. 

”You know what?” he said to himself, “fuck it.” He turned on his heal and climbed the staircase, not even giving the barrels a final glance. 

He could always buy new jumpers. 

~*~

As soon as Moriarty left, Sherlock collapsed on the couch. He did not close his eyes or steeple his fingers; now was not the time for deduction or a trip into his mind palace. Right now he needed to repress every single feeling and memory he had towards the man in order to keep his sanity. So there Sherlock rested, one arm dangling off the couch and his eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling. That was how John found him when he opened the door to 221b. 

”Screw your apples, Sherlock. I left them at the tube station. I don’t care if you infect my jumpers with anthrax. Infect _all_ of my clothes. I don’t give a damn.” John faltered when he saw his friend lying as if he was in a catatonic state. “You alright, mate?” 

”Absolutely peachy,” Sherlock said flatly. “I’m impressed by your ability to read body language.” 

John rolled his eyes, but was too tired for a clap back. He took the high road and ignored the insult. He took off his shoes and jacket before settling down in his chair. “What’s wrong?” 

”Moriarty is alive and he was just here,” Sherlock said emotionlessly. 

John threw his head back and laughed. “Alright, quit being a knob.” John grabbed a dirty tea cup he had left out that morning. He was about to put it away when Sherlock turned his head. 

”I’m not joking, John,” he whispered. 

The look on his friend’s face said it all; Sherlock was in shock. He was afraid, and exhausted. The teacup fell from John’s fingers. The porcelain shattered as soon as it hit the floor. 

”H-how?” John whispered. 

Sherlock looked back at the ceiling. “He didn’t say and I didn’t really have a clear enough mind to ask. Mycroft actually proposed the idea this morning when we went out for breakfast.” 

John’s eyes widened. “ _Mycroft_ knows?” 

Sherlock sat up. “Not for sure, but he seemed pretty convinced.” 

”Well, are you going to tell him?” 

”No.” 

John leapt to his feet. “You cannot have our personal _terrorist_ running around London without Mycroft knowing! You know what he is! He almost killed _me!_ He almost killed _everybody!_ ” He shook his head and looked at the ground. “It was his fault you abandoned us for two years.” John’s voice had quieted. 

At this Sherlock faltered. He closed his eyes. “He has already threatened to do so again if I don’t corporate. I’m assuming that he doesn’t want the police involved. So if you don’t want anyone in danger, we say nothing.” 

John’s face paled and he fell back into his chair. He leaned forward and put a hand to his forehead. “I thought we were free. That man is like a ghost.” 

”Orb-weaver.” 

”What?” John cocked his head. 

Sherlock batted the question away with his hand. “Never mind.” He didn’t have the strength to explain Moriarty’s very disturbing and very accurate analogy. 

”So what does he want?” 

Sherlock mussed his hair, trying to dispel his nervous energy. “He has employed me to solve a homicide.” 

John looked as if Sherlock had grown six heads. “And why the bloody hell would he do that? What’s the case?” 

Sherlock had flung himself back on the couch. “He had an American politician running for President in the US that he had complete influence over. The man was suddenly found murdered. He wants to find the perpetrator for revenge and to save face. I just don’t understand why I am involved.” 

John was quiet for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. “So we’re actually on his side.” 

Sherlock’s blue eyes flicked to John’s. “As long as I do everything he says, don’t get caught, involve the police, and solve the case, then yes, we are on his side.” 

”Those are a lot of stipulations. You do know that this won’t be easy.” 

With a roll of the eyes, Sherlock said, “No, working with James Moriarty is going to be a walk in the park.” He steepled his fingers. “Although this situation is more favorable than before.” 

”So what do we do now?” 

Sherlock stood up. We learn about our victim. He walked over to his desk and flipped open his lap top. Opening his browser, he quickly went to Google and typed in ‘Roger Andrews.’ In seconds his screen was flooded with articles about the politician. 

Sherlock hummed. “Odd.” 

”What?” John asked, getting up and reading over Sherlock’s shoulder. 

”Not a single article mentions his murder.” Sherlock began clicking on all of the search results. “It’s only about the polls, his policies, and other typical boring political garbage.” 

”He looks like a nice guy.” 

They were looking at a picture of a man in his late thirties. He had light brown hair, hazel eyes, and a perfect, white tooth smile. He was tall and slimly built. He had a hand up in the air, waving to the crowd of people who had come out to see him speak. 

”He was a thief, drug pusher, and cheated on his wife with prostitutes. Don’t get attached,” Sherlock said dryly. he tapped his fingers on the desk. why had nothing been written about his death? unless… “No one knows about the murder yet,” Sherlock blurted excitedly. He had uncovered the first mystery. Without an explanation, he leapt up and grabbed his coat. 

”What are you doing?” John asked, confused. 

”We need to go to the Scotland Yard before this gets to the public. Acts of terrorism involving a US citizen are always handled by the FBI. I must convince them to hand it over to me immediately.” 

”How are you going to do that?” 

Sherlock gave his scarf a final tug. “I"m Sherlock bloody Holmes. Now keep up.” Without waiting, he left the flat, making John scramble to get his shoes on. 

Feeling like a child on Christmas morning, Sherlock burst out of 221b and onto the street. As he hailed a cab, he felt his phone vibrate. Taking it out, he saw that he had a text message. 

_Fill me in on the_

_deets as you go_

_along, ok?_

_Hope you don’t_

_mind that I hacked_

_your phone. };) -JM_

Sherlock put the phone back in his pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Moriarty2017


	3. Text Messages

”How does seven million dollars a year sound?” James Moriarty was sitting at his desk, leaning over his work phone. “It’s more than I was giving the other guy.” 

”I don’t know. I think what you’re asking me to do is worth a lot more than seven million a year,” Jason Helmers said over the speaker phone, a delightfully crooked senator that took twenty seconds to find. 

Moriarty began to drum on his desk, using his fingers as drum sticks. He mimicked the sounds with his mouth. “The other guy ended up dead. If you really want to follow that pattern, I’ll happily work that out for you.” He made the sound of a symbol. 

”No, no,” Jason said hurriedly. “Seven million is very generous, thank you.” 

Moriarty snorted. “Three million for being a prick.” He stopped drumming. 

The line was quiet for a moment before the senator answered meekly, “Okay.” 

”Congratulations for looking like the most powerful man in the world.” Moriarty had begun to chew a pen. ”Now, I must warn you that from now on every move you make and every breath you take, I’ll be watching you.” Moriarty fell into a spell of giggles. “But in all seriousness,” his face went cold and his voice became soft, “there will be a bullet in your head if you start having second thoughts and mince off to the police, ya dig?” 

”I understand…” Jason already sounded terrified. 

”That’s not what I asked you _Jasoooon,_ ” Moriarty sang. 

”I dig.” 

”Lovely. Call you later, baby. Tell the wife and kids that I said to piss off.” Not waiting for a reply, Moriarty hung up. 

He reclined back in his chair, a serene smile on his face. 

Life was good. 

~*~

“Do you have to be so dramatic in literally everything that you do?” John asked as Sherlock barged through the front doors of the Scotland Yard, his coattails flying.

Sherlock turned to his friend and gave him a cheeky smile. “Absolutely.” To add to his point, he opened his coat and pulled his scarf off, allowing it to smack John in the face. He then dropped his coat off his shoulders and let it fall to his wrists before swinging it off and folding it over his arm. 

”I hate you. I hate you _so_ much,” John said, shaking his head. 

Sherlock only laughed as they rounded the corner and strode into Greg Lestrade’s office. 

Lestrade sighed, mid-bite into his bagel. Putting a hand over his mouth as he chewed, he garbled, “This can’t be good if you’re here this early in the morning when you don’t have to be.” 

”There’s a case that I want,” Sherlock said, stopping in front of his desk. 

Lestrade took another bite of his bagel, “Then take it,” he mumbled between chews. 

“Oh, for god’s sake!” Sherlock grabbed the half eaten bagel and threw it at the window, where it stuck and slowly slid down the glass, leaving a trail of cream cheese in its wake. 

”Hey!” Lestrade protested. 

”Manners, Gil,” Sherlock scoffed. 

”That’s rich, coming from you.” Lestrade was too tired to correct Sherlock. 

”Back to the matter _at hand,_ ” Sherlock began, “there is a case that I want to take that involves an American citizen and will be considered an act of terrorism. Due to circumstances, I cannot disclose any more information.” 

Lestrade shook his head. “Not my division times two. He’s an American citizen, so the case is automatically going to be handed over to the FBI; and even if he was English, the anti-terrorist unit would be dealing with him. They’ve been working hard to expand the department recently.” 

”What is the number for Quantico?” Sherlock asked. 

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you try anything.” 

”I’m just going to look it up if you don’t tell me.” 

Lestrade sighed. Leaning back in his chair, he said, “Call them from here so I can stop you if you say anything stupid.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes but grabbed the phone all the same and dialed the number Lestrade gave him. He waited as the phone rang. “Yes, I’d like to talk to the director…my business? That’s none of _your_ business –“ 

Lestrade grabbed the phone from Sherlock. “This is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of The Scotland Yard. I apologize for my colleague. Sherlock Holmes can get a little excited.” Lestrade was quiet and nodded his head. “Yeah. Uh-huh. Yes, that Sherlock Holmes.” 

Sherlock looked around the room smugly, causing both Lestrade and John to roll their eyes. 

”He wants a case that I guess is going to come your way soon. He says it will be considered an act of terrorism, so the ball would be in your court.” Lestrade waited again. “Alright. I’ll let him know.” he hung the phone up and sighed. Rolling his eyes he said, “He would be more than happy for you to take the case.” 

”Sherlock clapped his hands together and rubbed them eagerly. “Well look at that.” 

John could have punched the smug smirk off his face, but their job certainly got a lot easier. 

”Thank you,” John said as Sherlock turned on his heel. 

Lestrade waved his hand half-heartedly in recognition and both men left the building. 

”What’s the plan?” John asked. 

Sherlock took out his phone. “We figure out where the body is, and depending how long that takes, we wait.” 

He began to type; 

_The FBI has given the case to me._

_Greg Lestrade and the Director obviously know there is a case,_

_but I wasn’t specific._

_So any murders of the innocent would be incredibly low-class._

_We need to know where the body is._

_-SH_

~*~

The only sound was his fingers drumming on his thigh. Moriarty had been mindlessly playing Plague on his cellphone. He did so often when he was bored and didn’t want to think. The game allowed him to be destructive without any real effort. However, this was one of the few rounds he lost because a text message from Sherlock Holmes popped up on his screen. A smirk immediately spread across his face. His day was finally looking up. 

“So any murders of the innocent would be low class.” That cheeky bastard. Good old Sherlock, being sassy even in the face of danger. It was becoming clearer that resetting their chess pieces had been the right move. Finally with pep in his step, the criminal texted him back. 

~*~

John looked up when Sherlock let out an aggravated sigh. “What?” Sherlock simply handed him his phone. 

_That’s my boy!_

_His bod’ is a liiiiiittle out of the way_

_Bedfordshire_

_Faaborgvej 240_

_DK-5700 Svendborg_

_Somewhere in the woods._

_Might take a bit_

_ttyl!_

_-JM_

”Are you shitting me?” John handed Sherlock’s phone back. “He expects us to schlep through an entire forest?” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you tell me that working with him wasn’t going to be easy?” 

”Where does the address lead to?” 

”Bedfordshire,” Sherlock said flatly. “It’s a hunting lodge.” 

”How are we going to get there?” 

”Sherlock Holmes?” Sherlock spun around. A young man with blonde hair and coke bottle glasses was looking at him questioningly. He was dressed in business casual with neatly combed hair. 

”That depends,” Sherlock said with narrowed eyes. 

”I was instructed to take a Sherlock Holmes to Bedfordshire.” Sherlock and John looked at each other. 

”Who sent you?” Sherlock asked suspiciously. 

”You know who.” The man turned and waved them to follow him. Sherlock and John glanced at each other, making sure they were in mutual agreement before they followed him. 

Thing were about to get incredibly interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Plague #Moriarty2017


	4. Unpredictable

Sherlock’s footsteps echoed as he walked down the asylum’s halls. It was uncharacteristically quiet. There should have been shrieks of the deranged piercing through the air and moans reverberating off the walls. This establishment was for the most deranged and dangerous after all. 

This was a new building that Sherlock wasn’t familiar with. The pale green paint on the walls was peeling and the stench of death was seeping from every crevice. Sherlock didn’t know why he was here or why he was walking down this hallway. He just knew he needed to. As the end of the hallway grew closer, his heart began to beat faster. He wanted to turn around. He wanted to _run_ , but he couldn’t. 

The overhead florescent lights began to flicker, catching Sherlock’s attention. A fly buzzed towards one of the dying bulbs. As soon as it touched the glass, it fried. Sherlock winced. 

His footsteps were soft and laced with hesitation as he slowly stepped in front of the door. 

It was just like all of the other doors he had passed, metal with a small window towards the top. How incredibly boring. He found himself disappointed. Just as he was going to turn back, something slammed against the door so hard that Sherlock almost fell down. 

Stumbling backwards, his heart began to pound against his chest and he could feel the blood rush to his ears. Gathering all of the courage he could muster, he returned to the door and looked inside. 

James Moriarty once again sat in a padded room, but things were drastically different. No longer was he in a strait jacket, but dressed in the blue Westwood suit he had donned when Sherlock first met him. He was casually leaning back in a chair, his legs gracefully crossed and feet resting on a plain, metal table. He was cutting a blood red apple with a knife and popping the pieces into his mouth. 

”I thought you’d never show up,” he said with a lazy smile. 

Sherlock was in shock. “Why aren’t you in a strait jacket?” 

Moriarty shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t ask me. We’re in _your_ head.” He chuckled and dropped another piece of apple into his mouth. 

”I don’t understand,” Sherlock said softly. 

Moriarty gave him a knowing smirk. “Well, hopefully you will. Then I can get out of these.” He held up his hands and Sherlock saw that his wrists were bound by shiny handcuffs. “It makes eating really hard.” 

”You seem to manage,” Sherlock said dryly as Moriarty continued to munch on his apple. 

”There’s that Sherlock humor.” Moriarty pointed at Sherlock and chuckled. 

Sherlock licked his lips. “Can you at least give me an indication as to whether I’m going in the right direction?” 

Moriarty pouted as he thought. “Maybe I can be mysteriously vague from time to time just to make things interesting,” he finally decided. 

”Can I see you again?” Sherlock asked, trying to get as much information out of him as possible. 

After several thoughtful chews, Moriarty answered, “That’s up to you.” 

Sherlock huffed. He hated half answers. He needed _concrete_ answers. He needed logic. The one thing Sherlock hated the most was a puzzle left unsolved, and this one looked like it was going to be the hardest one he had faced. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but Moriarty gave him a little wave. 

”Visiting hours are over, Sherlock. See you later if you decide to come back,” he snickered. “I heard the drive is just _dreadful_.” 

~*~

Sherlock gasped as he jolted awake. He was covered in sweat and his hands were trembling. He whipped his head around, looking for Moriarty. Instead, he found a very concerned looking John Watson. 

”Are you okay?” John asked. “You look like death.” 

Sherlock swallowed, his blue eyes darting in every direction. That’s right; he was in a car on the way to Bedfordshire to look for Roger Andrews’ body. 

”I’m fine,” he said. “Are we almost there?” 

”As a matter of fact, we have just arrived,” the driver announced. He got out and opened the door for Sherlock. 

He stepped out into the afternoon air and took in his surroundings. 

In front of them was an elegant white, two story building. The red ceramic tiled ceiling was bare in some places, suggesting its age. However, it did not take away the feel of wealth. 

”Killing innocent beings really pays, yeah?” John asked humorlessly. 

”It would appear so,” Sherlock said, flipping up his collar. 

”I’ll be waiting here for you, sirs,” the driver said. 

The men turned. “How much is Moriarty paying you?” Sherlock asked. 

At this the driver smiled. “Enough.” 

Sherlock stood there, wanting to probe further but decided against it. Instead he turned and made his way to the front door of the lodge. 

”Jesus, he’s really treating us like kings,” John said as they walked across the lobby. “Do you find it weird?” 

”Immensely,” Sherlock’s hands were deep in his pockets, “but he was always one for theatrics. Now that we are…on his side I would imagine that we should expect to be pampered. He’ll surely want to showboat.” 

John nodded. “Is it weird that it creeps me out?” 

”Not in the slightest.” 

The lobby was massively pompous and even more tasteless. The walls were made out of polished wood and the floor matched it flawlessly. Several leather couches were gathered around a massive fireplace and the red ornate throw rug was shockingly spotless. Sherlock recoiled at the leopard skin that was draped over the furniture backs. Perhaps the most pretentious thing was the giant chandelier hanging from the ceiling. 

”I feel like it’s looking at me,” John murmured, turning to the mounted moose head. 

”Those aren’t real eyes, John,” Sherlock said flatly as he approached the front desk. 

John rolled his eyes. “I’m well aware of that.” 

”Doesn’t sound like it.” 

The concierge smiled at the two men. “How can I help you gentlemen today?” 

”I need to go out into the grounds,” Sherlock said. 

The woman began to type on her keyboard. “And what game will you be hunting?” 

”Human.” 

The woman’s eyes widened. “E-excuse me?” 

Sherlock rested his arm on the counter. “I need free range of the forest. I’m looking for someone and I know that he is lost somewhere, so cancel all of the hunting trips today.” He leaned forward and read the woman’s name tag. “Thanks, Stacey.” With a smirk, he turned on his heel and headed towards the door. 

”He’s with the Scotland Yard,” John explained and quickly flashed his driver’s license. 

”Okay…” Stacey said softly before John trotted after his friend. 

”I can’t believe how many people don’t even look at the badge,” John chuckled. “I showed her my license, Sherlock. I don’t even _use_ it.” He laughed in disbelief. 

Sherlock chuckled as they made their way across a grassy field. “Hopefully she’ll remember to call everyone off. I’m not in the mood for a bullet to the head.” He wrapped his scarf around his neck tighter as a breeze kissed his face, making his coattails fly. It was unusually cold that afternoon. 

”How long do you think this will take?” John asked as they stepped into the woods, their feet crunching on the dead leaves. 

Sherlock scanned the woods, taking in the towering trees, gnarled bushes, and rotting logs. After a moment he answered, “If we find him today it would be a miracle.” John groaned. 

As the men began their journey into the wilderness, Sherlock took out his phone. 

John cocked his head. “What are you doing?” 

”Sending a progress report to our employer.” 

John sighed. “I will never get used to the fact that James Moriarty is our boss.” He looked at Sherlock. “He had employers aim sniper guns at us! He had employers put me in a bomb vest.” He shook his head. “This whole thing is just one big mind fuck.” 

”Imagine having to text him like he was your boyfriend,” Sherlock said, looking at John out of the corner of his eye. 

John nodded. “You got me there.”’ 

~*~

”How are you doing, Bill?” Moriarty asked, sitting down on the bench inside of the dark cell. “I heard you were being a little loud today and I decided to come down and check on you.” 

Bill was lying on the ground curled in a ball, only a waif of a man. He was completely emaciated, with oozing sores all over his body. His bones were clearly visible and his skin was a sickening yellow color. The hair he hadn’t pulled out had turned grey and felt like straw. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot. All he was wearing was a pair of soiled shorts. 

”I need another hit, man,” he whimpered, “just one more.” 

Moriarty nodded sadly. “You know I can’t do that yet. I want you to get better, remember?” 

”You LIAR!” Bill shouted. ”You’ll just get me addicted, take it away, force me into withdrawal, and then give it to me again! It’s been months, man. Please, give me a hit or kill me!” He began to cry. 

Moriarty leaned back. “You seemed to really like meth when you and your scum friends smoked the shipment you were supposed to push.” He scratched his cheek. “It seems like I’m giving you exactly what you wanted. Unless…” his voice became dangerously quiet, “you want me to go after your family. They’re already disappointed in you, so it’s not like they would be shocked if I throw them in here with you.” 

Bill began to pick at his skin and blood quickly began to ooze onto his fingers. “No! Please. I’ll shut up.” 

Moriarty smiled. “Good,” he said softly. 

”Can you I ask you something?” 

”Anything for you, Bill.” 

Bill swallowed. “How long are you going to keep me down here?” 

Moriarty stroked his chin as he thought. With a furrowed brow he answered, “Until it stops being fun.” He got up and his guards slammed the cell store shut. With a smile he said, “Have a good day Bill. It’s really nice out.” 

He ignored the wails as he left the confinement wing, instead taking out his phone to look at text. 

_We’ve arrived in Bedfordshire and have,_

_started to look for the body._

_We don’t know how long it will take,_

_but it will most likely take longer than a day._

_If you had involved the actual police you could have used cadaver dogs._

_\- SH_

Of course Sherlock was right. A whole team of cops, volunteers, and cadaver dogs could have found the body within a day. Hell, he imagined a hunter could have found him if Sherlock hadn’t called them off. Moriarty was well aware of that. He quickly responded. 

~*~

_Enough with the ‘tude, Sherlock!_

_Don’t think that everything is going to be so predictable._

_It’s insulting_

_-JM_

”What?” Sherlock said, pulling the phone away from his face as if it would make more sense from far away. 

”What’d he say?” John asked, noticing Sherlock’s confusion. 

”He’s upset that I assume he would be predictable,” he said slowly. 

John raised an eyebrow. “What in bloody hell does that mean?” he asked as he stepped over a log. 

Sherlock was quiet for a few moments, deep in thought. He remembered the Moriarty in his mind palace, relaxing in the insane asylum, telling him that there was something he needed to understand in order to free him from handcuffs. “I have no idea,” he finally answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Moriarty2017


	5. Dark Bowser

They had been traipsing the wilderness for three hours and their bodies were miserable for it. Sherlock’s dress pants were splattered with dirt and his shoes were covered with mud and leaves. He was constantly fighting against branches due to his tall stature, forcing him to bat them away. This made his hands covered with cuts and scratches. He was in a never ending battle with leaves falling into his hair and was constantly picking them out of his dark curls. 

John wasn’t faring any better. As it turned out, the doctor was quite clumsy when it came to the outdoors. He had tripped over numerous logs and had slipped and fell on a puddle of mud. It earned him a wet splotch on his right knee. 

The wind had picked up and the day had become much colder. Sherlock had to shove his hands into his pockets and rewrap his scarf every few minutes due to the breeze. 

To put it simply, they were miserable. 

”You know what?” John said after twenty minutes of silence. “Moriarty can kill me. This isn’t worth it.” 

Sherlock looked at his partner, his hair blowing across his forehead. “He wouldn’t send us out here if he didn’t think we could find it. His arse is riding on this as well.” 

John sputtered. “I don’t remember his life being threatened!” 

”No, but his ego is bruised, which for him is just as bad.” 

John shook his head. “That’s ridiculous. We can’t assume that.” 

”I’m not assuming.” 

John raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” 

Sherlock sighed. “I would feel the same way.” He kicked the dirt. “Two sides of the same coin.” 

”Don’t give me that bullshite. He was just running his mouth.” John looked at his friend, suddenly very concerned. 

”Not _exactly,_ ” Sherlock assured. “I’m not the devil incarnate. We established our sides, angel and demon.” Sherlock looked up at the sky. “The only problem is that Satan was an archangel that fell. He turned to John. “Even the greatest can fall.” 

There was a heavy silence as Sherlock’s words hung in the air. 

”Bowser and Dark bowser,” John finally said. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “What?” 

”You’re making your roles much too complicated. You and Moriarty are like Bowser and Dark Bowser.” When Sherlock still looked confused, John continued, “They’re videogame characters. Bowser is a turtle dinosaur and he has an evil twin or clone or something and he is known as Dark Bowser. My niece plays Nintendo.” 

Sherlock took out his phone and quickly typed in ‘Dark bowser.’ A blue turtle dinosaur with a spikey shell popped up. 

”’Dark Bowser is Bowser's final boss in _Mario & Luigi: Bowser's Inside Story_. He has all the powers Bowser has, along with many dark variations as well. He seeks to cover the Mushroom Kingdom in darkness and destroy it,’” he read aloud. Sherlock blinked once, twice, before bursting out in laughter. 

”See!?” John laughed, pointing at Sherlock’s phone. “Moriarty is literally Dark Bowser!” 

”Who…who makes a _turtle_ a villain?” Sherlock chuckled, 

”The Japanese,” John answered immediately. 

Sherlock took his phone out and started to type with a gusto. 

”What are you doing?” 

”I’m changing the bastard’s contact name to ‘Dark Bowser.’ It’s the only good thing that has come out of this situation and I am going to hold onto it as long as possible.” 

John doubled over and snorted. “What if he finds out?” 

”It would be all the more funny,” Sherlock smirked. 

Their spirits raised a tiny bit, they continued for another hour. It wasn’t until Sherlock’s scarf got caught in a bramble that he took out his phone. 

_I hate you._

_-SH_

He was agitated and didn’t think while he was typing. It wasn’t something you would normally send to your boss or your mortal enemy. You would send it to a close friend. It was too casual. Plus, it was rude. However, trekking through the woods for four hours on a freezing cold day really dulled one’s senses. It wasn’t until five minutes later that Sherlock realized who he had just sent his typical sharp tongue quip to. His whole body went cold when he realized that he and John were dead. 

He was about to tell John that they needed to come up with an escape plan before his phone buzzed. With a grimace, he opened the message. 

_Wow. Rude._

_-JM_

Sherlock sighed in relief. James Moriarty had an extremely odd sense of humor and for the first time it worked in his favor. 

”Sherlock!” John had been desperately shaking his friend’s arm, trying to get his attention for the last minute. Finally knowing that they weren’t going to be murdered, Sherlock looked up. 

”Huh, what?” 

”Look!” John pointed ahead of them. 

Sherlock squinted. It took a moment, but sure enough, he saw a blue, pinstripe lump among the red and brown leaves. “Come on!” he shouted and began to run, his coattails and scarf flying as he took off. 

Leaves flew as the detective and the doctor sprinted through the woods, dodging every tree and leaping over every puddle. They had been in this damn forest the entire day and they would be damned if they were going to stay in it a moment longer. Both of them skidded to a stop, having to scramble so that they wouldn’t fall. Not bothering to catch their breath, they approached the body. 

The dashing Roger Andrews they had seen in the campaign photos was gone. His navy blue pinstripe suit was covered in mud and torn. One of his shoes was missing and his arms and face were lacerated with cuts and scratches. An entire forest seemed to have grown in his hair and Andrew’s eyes were milky. 

John knelt down. “The poor bastard,” John said. He was referring to the dozen or so arrows sticking from almost every part of his body. He turned to Sherlock. “What the hell happened to this guy?” 

”I’ll tell you in a minute,” Sherlock said, taking his spot next to John. With all of his attention on the body before him, he began; 

”The cuts and lacerations on his body are the same as ours, indicating that he has been in here a long time. We also know that he wasn’t brought here with any transportation inside of the woods.” He moved down to the shoe. “The traction on the sole is worn. He was running, and I don’t mean just jogging.” Sherlock looked the way they came. “He was running for his life. You don’t just wear your soles down like that or make a five hour journey alone for leisure.” Sherlock leaned in and inspected the entry wounds. “There are seven shots. Two in each bicep, and one in each thigh, both missing the femoral and brachia artery. The final entry point is on the forehead.” Sherlock gestured to Andrews’ head. “The arrow was shot directly into his head, dead center.” 

Sherlock stood up. “The placing of the entry wounds and their accuracy show that the murderer is an excellent marksmen and that he did not want to kill him right away.” Sherlock pointed to the wounds on the thighs, knees, and biceps. “None of those wounds are fatal and they missed major arteries deliberately. We know that he was shot there first because the blood is harder and darker than the head wound. 

Putting on a latex glove, Sherlock gently slid the arrow out of Andrews’ head. 

”Oh, Jesus,” John winced as brain matter clung to the arrowhead. 

Sherlock examined the arrowhead. “The arrow is 20 inches and is made of aluminum with a half-moon knock…” Sherlock stood up. “This is from a crossbow.” 

”So what does all of this mean?” John asked. 

Sherlock hesitated, not wanting to say the words. Finally, he said, “He was being hunted.” 

John didn’t know what to say, he was so horrified. 

The only thing Sherlock could do was log their success. 

_Found the body._

_-SH_

Moriarty must have had magical fingers because before Sherlock could take a breath he got a response. 

_See?_

_Easy peasy lemon squeezy!_

_Go home and go detectiving tomorrow._

_I’ll deal with the bod’._

_Is he ugly?_

-JM 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, irritated that he couldn’t have a serious answer. However, Rogers was incredibly unpleasant to look at. 

_Incredibly_

_-Sh_

”What’d he say?” John asked. 

”He’s going to take care of the body. I guess he expects me to text the coordinates. We have permission to go home.” 

John looked up at the sky and closed his eyes. “Thank _god_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are about to get very interesting...


	6. Playing Gay

The air in the asylum was heavy. It pressed down on Sherlock’s chest as he navigated down the familiar hallway. With every step clouds of dirt swirled around his ankles, causing him to leave a trail of floating dust behind him. Sherlock had begun to fear the unknown, and his mind palace had become a place that was completely foreign to him. As he approached the last door of the hallway, his heart began to palpitate. 

When he reached the door, he closed his eyes and searched within himself, trying to find what was behind it. To his dismay, he could only find the asylum. 

His mind palace had turned on him. 

With a deep breath, his crystal blue eyes gazed through the small window. 

James Moriarty was once again lounging at the steel table, but he was now sitting. No longer was he munching on an apple, but a box of Goldon Crunch Creams. He didn’t look up when Sherlock peaked in. His nose was buried in a novel, his brown eyes flying across the pages. Seconds went by as Sherlock watched Moriarty read, not knowing what to do. With great trepidation, Sherlock brought his knuckles to the door and gently knocked. 

Moriarty immediately looked up. Their eyes locked and a devilish smirk spread across his face. “Sherlock Holmes, I was starting to think that you had left me to rot!” 

Sherlock shifted. “Where did you get those?” 

Moriarty flipped the book over and read the title, his handcuffs clinking. “You didn’t give these to me?” he asked with a confused pout. 

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “What? Of course I didn’t give those to you.” The asylum was not a room Sherlock visited willingly, especially to see Moriarty. “I would never give you anything.” 

”Huh, that’s weird.” Moriarty grabbed a cookie. “Everything in here is a manifestation of your conscious, so when these just popped up on the table I just assumed they were a friendly gesture.” He flipped through the book. “Especially when you consider the book choice. Have you ever read this?” He held up the book so that Sherlock could read the title. 

”’Misery’?” Sherlock asked. 

Moriarty nodded. “Yes. It’s by Stephen King, a great horror novelist. Loved him since I was eight.” He tapped the book cover. “It’s about an author that is held captive by his deranged, self-declared ‘number one fan.’ She turns out to be a serial killer behind a mass amount of infanticides. It’s one of his bests, in my opinion.” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “And what does that have to do with me?” 

Moriarty rolled his eyes and groaned. “God, Sherlock. I thought you were above the ordinary!” He smashed his hand on the table, making Sherlock jump. Moriarty smirked and pointed to his chest. “I’m your deranged number one fan, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock swallowed. “I found the body.” 

”And that makes me incredibly happy.” 

”Am I on the right path?” 

Moriarty put a finger to his lips. ”Shhh, Sherlock. I’m trying to read.” 

With a gasp, Sherlock was back in his bedroom, sitting up in his bed. He looked down at his hands; he was clenching his blankets so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. With a sigh, he threw himself back onto the mattress, bouncing several times. He flung an arm over his eyes, unable to handle the morning sunlight kissing his face. Why was Moriarty back in his mind palace? Why was he so casual? Why had things changed? 

He didn’t need this right now. He was already dealing with the real James Moriarty who could kill him and everyone he cared about at a moment’s notice. The case was the only thing that was keeping them alive and he didn’t have time to decipher the riddles of a man inside of his head. 

…but how would he know which way to go? Was the mind palace Moriarty the key to this mystery? Was his subconscious trying to tell him something that he was too stupid to figure out? 

Sherlock let out a frustrated growl before he stood up. Lying in bed certainly wasn’t going to solve anything. He had evidence to look at and clues to deduce. That was what Sherlock knew. That was where Sherlock thrived. 

The game was on. 

~*~

James Moriarty hated women. Not in a chauvinistic, sexist way. Those beliefs were for backwards, low class animals. 

No. James Moriarty _hated_ women. They were shoved at him his entire life because society decided that he needed to find them alluring. At no point was he ever offered an alternative. So when he began to notice that he found himself attracted to men, he was beyond confused. He wasn’t afraid of being teased; he was a psychopath. His disorder prevented him from being able to care about anyone other than himself and form lasting bonds, but stupidity is still incredibly off-putting and irritating. 

He never bothered telling anyone because he really didn’t care. Coming out was truly a ridiculous notion, having to announce your sexuality for another’s sake. 

How plebian. 

No, James Moriarty did not do any favors. If you couldn’t figure out that he preferred deep baritones over cringe-worthy shrills and strong hands over dainty sticks, then you were an idiot. So it was absolutely infuriating that he had been forced to go through life being treated as straight. He had gone to strip clubs to make business deals. He had been forced to sit through hours of repulsive “guy talk,” which was already primitive because everyone was beneath him. He had to be a chameleon to fit into society. That was how he hid. 

And for a moment, there had been hope. There was Sherlock Holmes, his equal in almost every sense. But even _he_ couldn’t see it. “Playing gay?” 

_”Playing gay?”_ He had practically _handed_ it to him. 

That was when he knew Sherlock Holmes was not as incredible as everyone believed him to be. So he had to push on, living while the dumb-witted asked him if he thought Angelina Jolie was hot or reveal how many women he slept with. 

This made it incredibly hard to play the part of a loving, straight man; which was why he was absolutely sickened by his current situation. 

”God, this place is gorgeous,” Andrea Winters whispered, her eyes alight as she took in her surroundings. 

It was absolutely disgusting. 

”Did you really expect anything less?” he cooed, wrapping his arm around her waist. 

They were sitting in the dining room of one of London’s finest restaurants. The Lecture Room & Library was as luxurious as one could get. Normally Moriarty would bask in such a place, soaking in the art-deco architecture and the charming way the light caught the wineglasses. However, tonight he had to put on a façade for a business dinner and a gay psychopath was not someone they would want sitting at their table. 

He had played this game thousands of times, slapped on the same fake smile and laughed the same fake laugh year after year. It was what kept him afloat. It was what allowed him to survive. Moriarty had learned that appearing more familial did wonders for a good impression and closing deals, so he had started to bring dates. Nothing would ever happen, of course. He would toss them as soon as he paid for the meal. Andrea Winters was the latest in the long line of toss outs. He couldn’t even remember how he met her, but it didn’t matter. 

As his executives and other employees trickled in, he poured her a glass of wine. “How was your day, sweetheart?” 

Whatever-Her-Name’s mouth pouted. She was clearly touched by his question, which she shouldn’t have been because he actually didn’t care. 

”It was really great. The kids were so good today.” 

Ah, so she was a teacher. 

He smiled, giving his wine a swirl before taking a sip. “I’m so happy to hear that.” He so wasn’t. 

”How was yours?” 

At that, he smiled. How could he answer that question? He broke into his arch nemesis’ house to enlist his help to solve the murder of his crooked politician. 

”Saw an old friend,” he finally said with a breathy laugh that was meant to look cute. It must have worked because What’s-Her-Face seemed to melt. 

Their conversation continued, all of Moriarty’s remarks well-honed and mechanical. His mind was not there. Around five minutes after they sat, a tall man with auburn hair and sea foam green eyes that just wouldn’t quit caught his attention. 

Moriarty had never been in a relationship or in love; his psychosis wouldn’t allow it. However, his sex drive was through the roof. Although he was forced to live in a world where people thought he was straight, he never had to sleep with a woman. 

His date must have sensed his lack of focus because she asked, “What are you looking at?” 

A smirk played on his lips. He wasn’t sure if the man was gay, but he sure as hell was going to find out. 

”I think I see someone I know. I’ll be right back.” Without a second glance, Moriarty ditched his date and the meeting for the dashing man with the sea foam green eyes. 

He really had a thing for eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was watching It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia when I wrote the last chapter and it was the episode about Frank going to the "loony bin." So now when I write the asylum scenes, which I once though were cool, I think of [Danny DeVito and the frog kid ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nzLF59_3RnY) and can't take it seriously anymore.
> 
> I really hope you are enjoying this so far because I am having a lot of fun writing it for you


	7. The Puppeteer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So everything about the political parties in this is NEUTRAL. I literally put them both in a random name picker to choose which Andrew was going to be and nothing was going to change with whatever people were assigned. 
> 
> Okay. Let's do this!

Sherlock’s hand hovered over the picture of Roger Andrew’s body. “Roger Adams, thirty-four year old scumbag and the Democratic nominee for the presidency of the United States, whatever the hell that means.” 

John sighed and put a hand to his forehead. “There are two different parties and each have separate core beliefs.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Well that’s stupid. What kind of moron categorizes their thoughts?” He snorted. “All koalas.” 

_”Koalas?”_

Sherlock looked over his shoulder. “If you give koalas food they often starve to death because it’s outside of their natural eating habits.” 

”How do you not know the earth’s orbit but are familiar Koalas feeding rituals?” 

Sherlock looked back at his wall. “I had to find a koala that was stolen from the zoo several years ago. He was captured by poachers and the idiots ended up killing him because they couldn’t feed him correctly.” 

”Ah, of course. My mistake.” John took a sip of his tea. 

Sherlock pointed to a worn piece of yellow paper which he had scribbled a rough timeline on. ”Moriarty reported his death at 9AM yesterday, Thursday morning. It still hadn’t reached the media yet, so it is safe to assume that it had to have happened just before.” He turned to the television and watched mute images of Rogers as reporters revealed that he was missing. “We arrived at 11 and found the body around 4:30PM.” 

”But how do you know if it was that recent? I mean it could have easily happened the night before. It's not like they would check on him while he was sleeping.” 

”No,” Sherlock said absent-mindedly, too focused on the task at hand. “The man wouldn’t be able to sneeze without Moriarty knowing.” 

John furrowed his brow. “Then why the hell doesn’t he know who killed Rogers?” 

Sherlock stroked his chin. “That’s just as big a mystery as the murder itself.” 

John put his cup down. “So, any suspects?” 

”Obviously the first person that comes to mind is his opponent, Adam Vaughn. If he does turn out to be sadistic enough to hire someone to hunt down his opponent, the United States has truly gone the hell.” 

”Who’s the second person?” 

”Anyone he who disagrees with his political beliefs.” 

John groaned. “That really narrows it down.” 

Sherlock shook his head. “Not according to internet trolls. Two minutes online and I learned that a hunting lodge is the perfect place to start our suspect pool. It would obviously fit with our hunting narrative and it’s on location. We start there.” 

”Great. I can’t wait to sit in a car for two hours and then stare at dead animals.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I truly don’t understand what you see in hunting, John. It’s primitive. I thought you were better than that.” 

”I was jok-" John sighed and gave up. “You’re right. I changed my mind. I hate hunting.” 

Sherlock was already shrugging on his coat. “Well, come on then! Enough with the lollygagging!” He left the flat before John could even get out of his chair. 

~*~

The phone rang three, four, five times before it was picked up. 

”Hello?” Helmers’ shaky voice crackled into the speaker. 

”Jason! How’s my main squeeze going?” Moriarty asked, his enthusiasm bouncing off the walls. 

Helmers must have felt it because his voice relaxed a bit. “We noticed that we suddenly went up in the polls by fifty percent, so I’m doing pretty well. Thank you for that.” 

”You wouldn’t even _imagine_ how far expert hacking and threats to loved ones go, Jason.” 

He certainly did. Sherlock Holmes was currently dancing in whatever way he flicked his wrist. 

Helmers let out a nervous laugh. They were exchanging friendly banter, but he was clearly still terrified of him. 

Good. 

Moriarty rubbed one of this eyes. “I’m sad to say that we do have a _tiny_ problem, Jason.” He heard the man’s breath hitch. “I thought I made it clear that the phone could only ring twice at the most before you picked up? I really don’t like waiting, Jason. I’m doing a lot for you and I’m an incredibly busy man.” Between running election fraud, a criminal empire, a legal business, and playing a game with the man he had been obsessed with for over ten years, he truly was spread rather thin. 

”I-I’m so sorry!” Helmers stammered. “It won’t happen again, Mr. Moriarty. I swear!” 

Moriarty chuckled. He loved it when they groveled. “Do you swear on your children’s lives? Because they are the ones I will kill first.” 

”I swear.” 

With a content sigh, Moriarty said, “Good,” and hung up. God, how he hated that man. 

Needing get the bad taste out of his mouth, Moriarty decided to take a break and indulge in his favorite hobby, which was anything that had to do with the world’s only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. He was his other side of the coin. They were polar opposites, yet they were identical twins separated from birth. The metaphors were absolutely endless. 

Psychopathy was always associated with violence and manipulation because of societie's fascination with serial killers. Because of this, many over looked their constant need for stimulation. It was incredibly hard for psychopaths to be satisfied with a normal life. It was too boring, so they were natural thrill seekers. Couple this with their apathy, lack of remorse and empathy, and you had a murderer. 

So James Moriarty was constantly bored. In order to live, to truly feel _alive_ and not get caught in the hell of the stasis of life was by comitting high crime. Breaking the law was exciting. Knowing that he had taken a life was absolutely thrilling and seeing his enemies crash and burn fueled him. Destroying someone from the inside out? _That_ was what he lived for. 

But at some point even that became booooooring. 

As he was navigating the black hole that was life, he saw a star. 

Sherlock Holmes. He finally had a real playmate, one that truly kept him on his toes and had genuinely caught him by surprise. The universe had finally given him something that was truly worth his time, something he genuinely _enjoyed._ With such an adversary his victory was all the more sweet. What he hadn’t planned was Holmes surviving and the game ending in a stalemate. 

Moriarty couldn’t ask for more. He had dropped what he was doing and immediately reset the chess pieces. Yes, he lived, but Sherlock Holmes was what made him truly alive. 

Was he a little disappointed that the detective hadn’t thought to check if the car he had sent them was tracked? Yes. But he decided to give him some leniency. He threw a lot at him at once and his attention was obviously focused on the murder. His laptop showed that they were on their way to Bedforshire. 

With a small smirk, Moriarty watched as the puppets danced.


	8. See You Later, Alligator

The hallway had become slightly familiar by now, but it still set Sherlock on edge. The sun shined through the grimy windows, lighting up hundreds of fingertips from patients who tried to claw their way out. Sherlock ignored it. He wasn’t here for that. 

Quicker than usual, he arrived at the last door. His heart fluttering from anxiety, he looked into the window. As he expected, James Moriarty was once again leisurely spending his day in a padded cell. Although Sherlock wasn’t as nervous as he used to be in the psychopath’s presence, he was still on edge. 

Sherlock cocked his head. Moriarty was in the exact same position as the last time: sitting at the steel table, Stephen King novel in hand, and happily snacking on a box of Golden Crunch Creams. 

Suddenly, he slammed his fist on the table. “Light the bitch on fire, you asshole! Smash her face with it!” Moriarty paused a moment as he read. It didn’t take long for a smirk to light up his face. “Oh, now that is the greatest example of dramatic irony I have ever heard of.” He held the book to his chest and looked up. “King, you have done it again!” 

Sherlock knocked on the door and Moriarty perked up. Their eyes met and a shiver went down Sherlock’s spine. He knew that it was impossible for humans to have black eyes, but Moriarty’s looked like burning, bottomless pits. 

_"Of course_ you would come right now,” Moriarty said dreamily, resting his cheek on his palm. “You wouldn’t believe what just happened in this book.” He held the novel up and shook it. “I’d tell you but I don’t want to spoil the ending.” He scrunched his nose. 

Sherlock didn’t give a damn about the ending. He wanted to know about _him._ This Moriarty was his key to the puzzle. He was completely Sherlock’s, and his brain was trying to tell him that there was something that he needed to know, and that it was important enough to make its own door in his mind palace. 

”Why haven’t you changed? You’re still eating the same thing and reading just like last time,” Sherlock asked. “This is a break from your established pattern.” 

With a sigh and a roll of the eyes, Moriarty put his book down. “Do you not understand the basic concept of change?” 

”To make or become different,” Sherlock answered flatly. “If you’re only here to teach me word definitions then I’m going to leave.” 

Moriarty held up a hand and closed his eyes, his handcuffs catching the light. With a small laugh he said, “Sherlock, if you want to figure out the super-secret to get into the club then you should shut your trap.” 

Sherlock huffed. “Sorry.” 

Moriarty opened his eyes and nodded. “Good,” he said softly. He put two of his hands on the table. “An object or a concept only changes if there is an influence.” He leaned back in his chair and shrugged. “You’ve done nothing progressive since our last meeting, so I’ll be sitting like this for a while.” He picked up his book. “I love this book, but I really do need some more entertainment, so chop chop!” 

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “So I did something last time that influenced change? I progressed?” 

Moriarty smirked. “I told you, Sherlock, ‘mysteriously vague.’” With a wink, he was gone and Sherlock was back in the car to Bedfordshire. 

”Do you really have to sleep during every long car ride?” John asked. 

”Car rides are boring,” Sherlock drawled, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Are we almost there?” 

”Couple more minutes,” the driver answered. “You seem to wake up right on time.” 

Sherlock merely grunted in acknowledgement. The real world had become rather boring without Moriarty’s antics and riddles, at least his own. He hadn’t seen the actual man since yesterday morning. Perhaps it was due to cognitive dissonance, but communicating through text made him worry less about Moriarty and allowed him to focus on the work at hand. 

”We need to look at the tours that went out yesterday and see which ones are American,” Sherlock explained as they stepped into the lodge. “We already know that he had to have gone out early, at least 4am.” 

”Who purposely gets up that early in the morning to go chase around an animal?” 

”Human. He was hunting a human. The only reason he registered was so that no one would find a man running around with a gun suspicious.” He looked up to find the same girl at the desk from yesterday. “We need the records of everyone who went out around 4am,” he demanded sharply. 

Immediately seeing that the girl was intimidated by her wide eyes, John intervened. “We’re on a case.” He flashed his license again. Stacey only had time to squint her eyes before it went back into his pocket. “We need to know their nationality as well.” 

”Okay,” she said slowly. “I’ll print out our logs. It has their licenses on them so you will know where they are from.” 

”Fantastic,” John said with a smile. 

”And be quick about it,” Sherlock added. John gave him a good shove with his elbow. “Ow! What’d I do?” 

”Acted like a dick. That’s what you did, “John whispered as the printer began to shoot out all of the names of potential suspects. 

Stacey handed the papers to John. “Here you go.” They were still warm to the touch. 

After giving the girl their thanks, they retreated to one of the leather couches. 

”There’s about one hundred people on here, forty of which are American. God, this is going to be annoying.” John grumbled, leaning back. “Again, who goes hunting that early and why are there so many Americans?” 

”Deer are more active in the morning,” Sherlock answered flatly. 

”So are we going to interview all of them? It could take a month!” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No. We’re going to send them all gift baskets. _Yes,_ we’re going to interview them until we find something that points us to the murderer.” Sherlock flipped his collar up. “No matter how long it takes. 

John watched as Sherlock put his phone to his hear. “What are you doing?” 

”Calling Moriarty. This is too big for a simple text.” As the phone dialed, he walked a few yards away, covering his other ear with his hand. He noticed John raise an eyebrow, but he paid it no mind. 

The phone rang only once before Moriarty’s musical voice greeted him. 

”Sherlock Holmes, to _what_ do I owe this pleasure?” 

Sherlock licked his lips. It was bizarre to hear his voice while he was awake. “I just wanted to tell you that we have a list of suspects.” Sherlock froze at the familiar sound of crunching. “What are you doing?” 

”Eating _spooky_ gingersnaps.” There was more crunching. “I’ve never terrified anyone with my chewing before. What’s up with that?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “Nothing.” 

”So what are you wearing?” 

”What?” Sherlock sputtered. 

Moriarty giggled. “I asked you what you are wearing, Sherlock. It’s a simple question.” 

Sherlock looked down. “A jacket.” 

”Oh, stop being boring!” Moriarty scolded. 

”Stop acting juvenile,” Sherlock snapped back. “Now, we have a list of forty or so possible leads. I need as much time as possible to track all of them down. I can’t do anything with that many people under a short amount of time.” 

”Who are they?” Moriarty’s voice had lost its playfulness. 

Sherlock sighed. “All American hunters from the lodge that were there around the time your man was murdered.” 

There was a pause before Moriarty said, “Why does he have to be American? Everyone hates politicians. It doesn’t matter where they’re from.” 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Enough to even pay attention?” 

”You’d be surprised. _I_ certainly hated him. He walked around like he was god’s gift to the world when he was really just a schmuck wearing _Hugo Boss_ suits.” Moriarty gagged. “Maybe it’s good that he’s dead.” 

At that, Sherlock let out a soft chuckle. “Then why am I looking for the murderer?” 

”Um, because I don’t want to look like a doofus and it pisses me off, doi!” 

Sherlock hummed in understanding. “That’s what I thought.” 

”Aw, you know me so well,” Moriarty cooed. “You just prove that you’re me a little more every day.” 

By now, Sherlock was gritting his teeth. “I am nothing like you.” He held his phone so hard that his knuckles turned white. “I don’t take lives. I don’t tear apart families or psychologically torture innocent people.” 

Moriarty hummed. “Yes, but it thrills you just the same. Just because you aren’t the one killing doesn’t mean you aren’t a monster.” 

Sherlock was stunned. He was right. 

They were the same. 

”Have I shocked you into silence, Sherlock?” Moriarty asked. Sherlock could _hear_ the smirk on his face. “I really thought you knew that we were two peas in a pod. You’re really disappointing me.” 

”Disappointing you is a good thing,” Sherlock finally said, his voice back. 

Moriarty sucked in air. _“Weeeeeeeell,_ you really don’t want to do that because I’ll kill you and everyone you love, remember?” When Sherlock didn’t answer, he continued, “I’m glad we’re on the same page. Now, curly Sherly, how long do you think it will take to weed out all of these pricks?” 

Sherlock put a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. “At least a month. We have a hundred people now that we are going to investigate everyone. Of course it will be less if I find something. It obviously took me ten seconds to deduce the profile and method of the murder. This case is different because there are so many. I’ll probably break into a few flats and look around beforehand, just so that I don’t waste my time later. I could possibly find something while they’re gone.” 

”Sherlock, you’re spoiling me. The timeframe sucks, I’m not going to lie. But your work ethic is just _divine._ ” 

”I don’t need your affirmation,” Sherlock scoffed. “I’ve said what I had to say. Goodbye.” Before he could hang up, Moriarty spoke. 

”Wow, really cold way to end a conversation. That’s not how you’re going to do it.” 

”Yes, it is,” Sherlock clapped back, feeling like a two-year-old. 

”No, you say, ‘see you later, alligator.’” 

Sherlock pulled his phone away and stared at it in disgust. “ _No!_ I _will_ not be saying that.” 

__Moriarty snickered. “Remember, I have absolute power, Sherlock,” he sang._ _

__Through gritted teeth, Sherlock grumbled, “See you later, alligator.”_ _

__”After a while, crocodile!” Moriarty tilled before hanging up the phone._ _

__”God, I can’t STAND HIM!” Sherlock yelled, throwing his phone to the ground, shattering it to pieces._ _

__”Bad talk?” John asked, his hands in his jacket pockets._ _

__Sherlock gave his lapels an aggressive tug. “Immensely. All he does is taunt, showboat, and threaten.”_ _

__”He made you laugh, though,” John pointed out._ _

__At this, Sherlock furrowed his brow. “Did I?”_ _

__”Yup.” John clapped him on the shoulder. “Now let’s start going through these names because I hate it here.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NO! You LOVE him! God, I just want them to make out. I have to restrain myself, man. That's why I have been churning out oneshots like a beast. I'm so thirsty.
> 
> [Here's info about orb-weavers. They're honestly amazing. They're literally the starving artists of spider land. It's their web weaving technique that inspired me to write this.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orb-weaver_spider)


	9. Sincere Ignorance

”Sherlock, I’m not comfortable with this,” John whispered fiercely as Sherlock kicked open the basement window of the suspect’s house. 

”Do you want to solve this case or not?” Sherlock asked as he slid feet first into the window. “A man has died. Show some compassion!” He disappeared into the dark room. John could hear him stepping on the broken glass. 

John shook his head. “You don’t care that he died. You’re just excited about the case.” 

”Be that as it may,” Sherlock’s voice said, “we still need to figure out who did it, and you standing there and winging isn’t going to help.” 

With a roll of his eyes, John clamored down into the basement. “How do you know they’re not home?” John whispered, looking up the stairs. 

”Their welcome mat is clean. If it had been used even once there would be dirt or grass in the fibers. They must have bought it and put it down before they left.” He took a small flashlight from his pocket and flicked it around the walls, looking for the light switch. “I don’t know how long they’ll be gone for, so we have to make the most of our time. Ah, there you are.” He flipped on the light. 

_”Oh my god,”_ John choked, throwing his hands over his mouth. “There’s nothing in here that will help you. Trust me. Let’s go upstairs." Before he could take the first step, Sherlock grabbed him by the collar. 

”What’s the big deal? It’s just a swing set,” he walked over to a shelf and picked up an item he was familiar with, “and a riding crop.” He tilted his head, confused. “Then they have beaded necklaces –“ 

“SHERLOCK, NO!” John yelled, grabbing his friend by the wrist and wrenching him away from the shelf of sex toys. 

”What?” Sherlock asked innocently. “I’m not going to steal it.” 

John clenched his fists. “They’ve been in somebody’s arse, Sherlock. This is a sex dungeon!” 

Sherlock’s eyes blew up as he spun around the room, taking everything in. A blush kissed his face. “I don’t understand.” 

”And I’m not going to explain it to you,” John said hurriedly, pushing him upstairs. When they made it out, John slammed the door behind them and threw his back against it. “Oh my god, never again.” He slid down to the kitchen floor. “Sherlock, I don’t have the strength.” 

Sherlock sat down next to him. “We don’t have to. I saw an anti-gun sticker on a guitar case.” 

”Oh, so there was something normal in there?” 

”I didn’t understand the rest so I really can’t tell you.” 

John pulled his knees to his chest. “How many people have we visited now?” 

Running a hand through his hair, Sherlock let out a tired sigh. “Ten.” 

”It’s been a month, Sherlock.” John’s voice was tired. 

”You know each case takes time.” 

”Yeah, but this is a hundred cases. The guy might not even be in this country anymore! Have you talked to Moriarty? Can you tell him to piss off? I love the game, Sherlock. I really do, but not when it’s with him and under these circumstances.” 

As a matter of fact, Sherlock had been talking to Moriarty quite frequently, almost daily. Since Sherlock’s first phone call, Moriarty insisted that all progress had to be relayed over the phone rather than text. The odd thing was that his mind palace Moriarty had not visited him since. 

Sherlock really didn’t like this case. It wasn’t interesting. The suspects were all country bumpkins, and they were getting _nowhere._ He wanted to be in his mind palace. Its puzzles haunted him, the puzzles in those blazing, black eyes. Why was it so hard for him to see? 

_”Mysteriously vague.”_

”No,” Sherlock said without a moment’s hesitation. He didn’t know why he said it, but the word fell from his lips with such ease. “I need to let him know that this was a waste of time.” 

”I’m going to look for some liquor. I can’t deal with this.” John stood up and began to rifle through the cabinets. 

Sherlock slipped his phone out of his pocket and went into the living room. It looked like it was decorated by a grandma, with brown couches and chairs. There were more white knitted afghans than one could count. He was sure the china in the cabinet was passed down through the family. No one would ever think that these people would have a BDSM sex dungeon in their basement. 

Sitting on the couch, Sherlock took out his new phone. He smirked, seeing the contact “Dark Bowser.” It was so ridiculous and completely accurate. He tapped the name. 

As usual, it only took one ring for Moriarty to pick up. 

“Howdy, howdy, howdy!” he said deeply. “Do you know what that’s from?” 

Caught off guard by the question, Sherlock managed, “Uh, no.” 

Moriarty’s sharp intake of breath made the speaker fritz. “You’ve never seen Toy Story? It’s when the shark finds Woody’s hat. God, were you born an adult?” 

”You watched kids’ movies?” 

”Not really. There was this kid who tortured toys and I thought that was pretty cool. He was ugly and stupid as hell, though. But hey, I was young.” He sighed dreamily. 

Sherlock rubbed one of his eyes. “Yes, psychopaths usually show symptoms at a young age.” 

”Born to be wild, Sherlock. Born to be wild,” he snickered. “Anywaaaaaay, I’m guessing you didn’t call me for movie reviews. I could go on for hours explaining to you why Mystery Men is the best movie of all time, but alas. So, what’s up, buttercu- ** _p_**?” He popped the ‘p.’ 

”We just cleared the tenth suspect.” 

”Oh, and how did you do that?” 

Sherlock hesitated, not sure if he wanted to tell Moriarty about the sex dungeon. 

”Come on, baby cakes. I don’t have all day!” 

Sherlock stood up and looked into the kitchen. John had found some Southern Comfort and was already putting a splash into two glasses. “We broke into the basement and it ended up being some crazy sex room thing or whatever. John explained it to me.” 

Moriarty gasped. “Oh _Sherlock!_ Your pure little heart just got slapped with some kink! What was there?” 

Now Sherlock was starting to get flustered. “I don’t know. Such things are absolute nonsense and have no purpose.” 

Moriarty tutted. “No, no, no, Sherlock. Those things make life bearable, trust me.” 

”Please don’t go into any more detail than that,” Sherlock grumbled. 

Moriarty laughed. “No, that would be disappointing.” 

”Embarrassed?” Sherlock smirked. 

”Nope! Daddy gets all the tail he wants.” 

”Mysteriously vague,” Sherlock murmured, a look of puzzlement on his face. 

"What was that?" Moriarty asked. "Didn't catch that last bit." 

”Nothing.” Talking with this man was nothing short of exhausting. Their conversation had stayed away from intimidation and threats so far, which was a relief. However, Sherlock knew that it didn’t change anything. “Just don’t talk about the women you’ve slept with. I already know enough.” He grimaced. 

Moriarty hummed. “Okay. Well, I have to go. Remember you’re all in the palm in my hand. Fuck up and I’ll smash you like a house fly, _especially_ that little boy toy of yours.” The line went dead. 

Ah, there he was. 

Sherlock let his head hang between his legs. All he wanted was to crawl into bed and sleep for days. It was a feeling he was not use to and it unsettled him greatly. Moriarty had a great way of making his world turn for the worst. He was brought out of his wallowing when a glass was held in front of him. 

”Drink?” John asked with an “up to no good” smile. 

Sherlock’s fingers wrapped around the cold glass. “More than you know.” 

~*~

London was so pretty at night. The busy streets, traffic lights, and lit buildings made everything look so _alive._ The city truly sparkled when the sun went down. 

Moriarty hated it. As he stood in front of the massive, panoramic window that was in his home, he thought about how he despised every single moving being that his brown eyes fell upon. He was incredibly high up, so he had quite a view of the population. 

His home was completely dark, and the city’s glow gave him a dramatic silhouette that one could only find in movies. Of course Moriarty could pull it off. 

He could do anything. 

Having grown bored of the world, he retreated to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of Pasión Azteca, Platinum Liquor. Lazily, he poured $3.5 million dollars’ worth of tequila into a shot glass and downed it. He picked up the bottle and brought it to the window where there was light. There was 6,000 diamonds on the bottle for absolutely no reason. He bought it because he could. 

With a growl, he smashed it to the floor. The diamonds scattered everywhere, shimmering in the moonlight. The tequila had gotten on his pants, which would normally infuriate him, but he was already fuming. 

Why was everyone so fucking _stupid?_

It was great to be king, but if he’s only surrounded by peasants with an empty court, his reign is miserable. 

That _stupid_ fucking detective. He wasn't even _close_. 

Snarling, Moriarty kicked the window. The night air whistled through the broken glass, making Moriarty’s blazer fly around him. 

Violently ripping his leg from the glass, Moriarty inspected the damage. His pant leg was shredded and hunks of glass were embedded in his skin. Trickles of blood flowed like tears all the way from his knee to his ankle. 

Without a wince, Moriarty straightened his lapels and walked across the room to the stairs. He was sure he left a gory trail, but that’s what hired help was for. 

The bloody diamonds burned scarlet under the moonlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Mormor (｡•́︿•̀｡) Sorry that this chapter sucked. I hope you're enjoying it overall. I'm very self-conscious


	10. Progress

It was nothing like before. 

The lights were broken, causing the walls of the hallway to come to life in blinking shadows. The ceiling was filled with holes, pieces hanging like icicles. Suddenly, a hunk of plaster fell to the ground, slamming to the floor in a cloud of dirt. Sherlock jumped and covered his mouth, coughing as the filth filled his lungs. Waving the cloud away, Sherlock pressed on. 

The door was absolutely filthy. To his distaste, Sherlock wiped the dirt away from the window and looked inside. He couldn’t contain a small gasp. 

Moriarty was no longer in the padded room, but a cell covered in rot. There was a murky puddle in the corner and water dripped from the ceiling. The man himself was bound to a chair, his wrists and ankles strapped to the arms and legs. His head lulled to his chest. He didn’t look up when Sherlock knocked. 

”James.” 

At that, Moriarty looked up with a small smirk. “I have to say, I’m shocked to see you here, Sherlock, especially when you call me by my first name. It must be love.” He looked around the cell. “You’re not exactly taking caring good care of me.” He looked exhausted. His already fair skin had become sickly pale. Despite the dark circles under his eyes, he looked absolutely menacing. 

”I haven’t done this to do you,” Sherlock said. “I haven’t talked to you in weeks.” 

Moriarty began to laugh softly, his shoulders gently shaking. The gentle laugh quickly evolved into a psychotic cackle. “It’s all about _you!_ ” he shouted, eyes burning. “Do you think I want to be here?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “Most people don’t enjoy sitting in a rotting cell, so I imagine not,” he drawled. 

”Will you just SHUT UP?” 

Sherlock winced. He was back at the pool, with Moriarty’s lion roar and cold, black eyes. “Enough with being ‘mysteriously vague,’” Sherlock snapped. “Why are you like this?” 

Moriarty snorted. “You want me to be specific, Sherlock? I’m in here because you’re a stupid prick.” 

Sherlock shook his head. “No. I’ve been moving forward in the case. We haven’t found the killer yet, but we’re narrowing it down.” 

At this, Moriarty threw his head back and laughed. “Sherlock, you may be stupid, but you are quite precious. You’re like an innocent little baby ignorant of the horrors of the world.” 

”I thought you said as I progressed things would change. You should be closer to freedom by now. Instead, you’ve regressed.” 

Moriarty went slack jawed. “And why do you think that is?” he mocked. “You _did_ regress. Mucho fucked up!” Moriarty shook his head like he was trying to get water out of his hair. “I don’t know how the real me can stand you.” He sighed. “I might have to get myself out.” 

Sherlock was taken aback. “You can leave on your own?” 

Moriarty rolled his eyes. “I’m the one who put me here, so I can get myself out.” 

”I thought I did this to you?” 

”You made me put myself in here.” 

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up. “You incarcerated yourself?” 

Moriarty snorted. “Mind bending, isn’t? James Moriarty _in a jail cell._ You knew I’d rather die than be locked away.” He sneered, “I’m above the ordinary. I rule the world, Sherlock. I’m not supposed to go falling into jail cells. They are for the weak and the stupid. Prison is for the people who have gotten _caught._ I’ll be in here for a while, but all I have to do is change my ‘tude.” His head fell back down to his chest. “Now fuck off. Go be a moron somewhere else.” 

Seeing his greatest advisory rotting away should have been satisfying. Instead, Sherlock felt a pain in his chest. James Moriarty was a storm; he left death and devastation wherever he went. Like him, he was more than just a man. Physically, he was always so put together and had a sharp tongue, but now he had been reduced to a man trapped. Sherlock knew that he would eventually waste away if he didn’t do something. 

With genuine remorse, Sherlock murmured, “I’m sorry.” 

Before he could blink the restraint on Moriarty’s right wrist opened. The man looked up, the familiar spark was in his eye and his mischievous grin spread across his face. 

”Progress, Sherlock Holmes.” He stretched his arm and let out a satisfied groan. “I never knew how great movement was.” 

Sherlock’s mind was racing. What did he just do? What were the variables? He observed Moriarty, felt remorse, and apologized. 

”Does it have to do with understanding?” 

”Bye, _Sherloooock!_ ” Moriarty sang as he gave him a little wave. 

”NO!” 

”Jesus Christ!” John swore, practically jumping up in his chair. 

Reality came flooding back when Sherlock opened his eyes. He had been up all night deducing and must have fallen asleep. By the looks of the sunshine peeking through the window, it was late morning. 

”What is going on with you?” John asked, putting his newspaper down. “Every time you fall asleep you’re tossing and turning and you wake up like a mad man.” 

Sherlock sat up and rubbed his eyes. “I keep having the most vivid dream over and over again.” He shook himself awake. “Well, it’s not exactly the same. The environment shifts every time I visit.” 

”Visit?” 

With all of the tiredness in the world, Sherlock met his friend’s eyes. “I keep meeting Moriarty. He’s incarcerated in a mental asylum. He isn’t attacking me or trying to psychologically break me. He’s…”Sherlock ran a hand down his face. 

”He’s what?” John pressed gently. 

With a frustrated groan, Sherlock continued, “He’s assaulting me with endless puzzles and riddles. He knows all about the murdered politician. It’s enough to make my head spin.” 

John was quiet for a moment. “Have you ever thought -” He shook his head. “No.” 

”What?” 

John leaned forward. “Have you ever thought of asking the man himself?” 

~*~

The man was an absolute idiot, but Moriarty didn’t care. It wasn’t like he was going to see him again. What Jack? Jason? did have was the body of a god and warm, brown eyes. Moriarty slammed him against the wall with the amount of ferocity he was feeling. The poor man’s head whipped back, but he couldn’t protest because Moriarty was attacking his lips. He bit the man’s lower lip so hard that it began to bleed. As he began to unbuckle the guy’s belt, he started to reflect on what brought him here. 

Sherlock bloody Holmes, that _stupid_ detective. He was supposed to be the smartest man in the world. He was his _equal._ Yet he still couldn’t solve it. 

Brown eyes were not his favorite. 

Right when he was going to slip his hand to what’s-his-face’s pants, his phone buzzed. Moriarty pulled back and took it out of his pocket. Running a hand through his wild hair, he checked his messages. 

”What are you smiling about?” What’s-his-face asked. 

Moriarty looked up. “I’m done with you,” he said and pulled away. “Get out.” Once the nameless man vacated the premises, Moriarty went into the living room. The window had already been repaired, so his view of London was clear and unblemished. For some reason, the city looked beautiful to him. 

He put the phone to his ear. It only rang once. “Got something on your mind, Sherlock?” He began to pace. “I don’t know, I’m pre-tay busy.” It was true, but he could easily make time. Moriarty just wanted to make the puppet dangle on its string. “What, right now?” He stroked his chin and looked at his watch. “You know what? Since you and me go way back, I’ll pop over right now. But the pet needs to stay outside. I’m deathly allergic.” Moriarty cut the call. 

Perhaps he had given up too early.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Rubs hands together* Things are picking up! I hope you enjoyed reading it. I always have fun writing this and I hope it conveys.


	11. Fireworks

déjà vu 

noun dé•jà vu \ ˌdā-ˌzhä-ˈvü , -ˈvᵫ \ 

Definition of déjà vu 

1 a :the illusion of remembering scenes and events when experienced for the first time 

b :a feeling that one has seen or heard something before

James Moriarty felt like he had stepped into a time machine as he drummed his fingers on the armrest of Sherlock’s chair. It was just as comfortable as before, worn by week long deducing sessions, violin playing, and whatever else Sherlock liked to do while he sat here. He wasn’t quite sure if he liked that nothing in the flat had moved since he last sat here, or if it irritated him. The skull’s empty eye sockets still stared blankly at the doorway he had so happily waltzed through. 

Of course none of that was as important or interesting as the man he was staring down. Sherlock Holmes was once again across from him. His legs were crossed and he was leaning forward, his fingers steepled. His blue eyes were trying to read him, to pick him apart piece by piece. Calculating, analyzing, deducing. That giant brain was working in overdrive and Moriarty let him go. He gave him nothing but the tap of his fingers, his cold dark eyes, and a set jaw. 

While the man seemed to be made of stone, his heart was fluttering. Maybe that big brain was finally going figure it all out. They could stop with this game and both come back with a victory only worthy to the gods. 

Only worthy to _them._

Moriarty remembered playing dead on the top of St.Barts: the fake scalp, bobcat firework, blood packet, igniters, fake gun…It was brilliant. _He_ was brilliant. He had won. So he couldn’t help it when he cracked open an eye to see Sherlock come undone. He wanted to truly bask in his victory. To see it. To _taste_ it. It was when Sherlock stepped to the edge of the building and opened his arms like the angel he accused him to be that Moriarty felt his heart drop. He got up and scrambled forward. 

No, no, no. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He was wrong. Moriarty would be bored if he jumped. He would be surrounded by the stupid, the mundane, and the _ordinary._ He would be _alone._ He killed the only person that made him feel alive. 

"Don't jump, ya langer!" Moriarty had worked hard to stamp out his street Irish childhood, but his pure panic broke down his walls. 

Psychopaths constantly needed simulation and were natural thrill seekers. Because nothing amused them, they turned to high crime to give them that high they needed. They could form relationships, but not in the same way the rest of the world did. They were passionate lovers, but it was like a firework; the person would always fizzle out in a blink of an eye. Nothing could remain interesting for long. 

Moriarty realized in those few seconds that he had found a firework, and it was one that was still exploding into the sky. He heard Sherlock’s body smash onto the pavement and the screams of the onlookers. But he didn’t care. James Moriarty lay on his back and looked up at the beautiful blue, now boring, sky. He sighed, knowing that he had to walk down the fire escape and go back to living the boring stasis that is life. He no longer felt alive. Sherlock had killed him. 

Sherlock Holmes won. 

Moriarty raised a taunting eyebrow. “Are you going to talk or are you going to admire me all day?” he asked the man he repulsively adored. Moriarty was completely disgusted by himself. Sherlock had unknowingly ensnared him and he would do anything in his power to get out. But you couldn’t just stop feelings. 

”What do you want?” Sherlock broke the heavy silence with a simple question that had a simple answer.’ 

_You._

”I want you to find the idiot that killed my candidate. Did you not have your thinking cap on when we first met?” 

Sherlock smirked. “No, I was quite attune to your song and dance routine. Add a symphony and a couple of twirls next time.” 

With a light chuckle, Moriarty shook his head. “You slay me, Sherlock. But you’re not going to get there with that attitude. Did you really bring me here because you thought I had some,” he brought his fingers up and made air quotations, “ulterior motives?” 

Sherlock leaned closer. “That’s exactly what I think,” he said quietly. 

”And why is that, Sherlock?” The man hesitated, and Moriarty’s interest shot up. “What are you hiding from me? Did you steal a cookie from the cookie jar?” His words were playful, but he was truly hanging off Sherlock’s every word. His practiced indifference was all a part of the puppeteer. 

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it. Moriarty cupped his ear and mockingly leaned forward. “I can’t hear _yoooooooooou!”_

”You told me in a dream,” Sherlock finally confessed 

The psychopath’s black heart leapt. An impish grin spread across his face. “Was it a wet dream? Imagine that, Sherlock Holmes having sex dreams about his personal terrorist. How fucked up would that make you?” 

While Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes, his cheeks did become slightly rosy. “No. You are locked up in an insane asylum, as you should be. Even my subconscious wants to put you away.” Sherlock gave him a cheeky smirk. 

Ouch. 

Moriarty sighed. “Sorry to break it to you, sweetheart, but that is the last place you will ever see me. I’d rather put a bullet through my head or jump off a building.” He winked. He was about to make another jab when he notice Sherlock stiffen. The detective had started to look very uncomfortable. He almost looked embarrassed. Moriarty cocked his head. “Something wrong, Sherlock? Don’t be shy. Talk to daddy.” Sherlock only blushed harder, as Moriarty knew he would. 

So many buttons to push. He felt like a little kid in an elevator. 

Even though Sherlock was embarrassed, it didn’t hinder his deducing. “You came to me to solve the case of a murdered politician. While it is something that you worry about and the entire story is true, that is not why you came to see me.” 

Moriarty nodded his head slowly, a thoughtful pout on his face. “Interesting. That came to you in a dream?” 

”Dream you has given me a…I guess a puzzle to solve. He made it very clear that he did not care about the case. I’m supposed to break you out, and I can only do so by solving the puzzle. The last time I saw him he was further bound, meaning I did something wrong.” 

Moriarty’s eyes were shining. The fool _did_ know, but on a subconscious level. What had to be done to make him see without being boring and obvious? 

_”Just don’t talk about all of the women you’ve slept with. I already know enough.”_

Oh, yes. That definitely caused the darling boy to regress. 

Moriarty put his elbow on the chair’s arm and rested his cheek in his palm. “Do you like these dreams? Dream me certainly sounds awesome.” He looked down at his chest. “Does he dress well?” 

Sherlock chuckled. “Yes, he is very suave and an absolute dickhead. You’re well represented.” 

Moriarty accidently let out a breathy laugh, causing Sherlock to freeze. He had sounded like a human for a moment and it was shocking and unsettling at the same time. Luckily, Moriarty gathered himself quickly. 

”It seems that dream me does a fine job of speaking for myself.” He stood up and Sherlock followed suit. He began to walk towards the detective. “If it helps, know that I’m rooting for you.” 

”I don’t understand,” Sherlock murmured as the man stepped so close to him that their noses grazed. 

”You will,” Moriarty whispered. His hand brushed Sherlock’s as he left the flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been waiting to write this since the beginning.


	12. Say Hello to the Roses

”I know you love Stephen King, but it looks like you’re a big Thomas Harris fan as well,” Sherlock chuckled, folding one leg over the other and leaning back in the chair that had materialized in front of Moriarty’s cell. 

Moriarty smirked. “Everyone misquotes Hannibal when they first meet. It’s not, ‘good morning, Clarice.’ It’s ‘Well, Clarice.’” He snorted. “It’s unfortunate. The original shows his true insanity because of his casualness. It’s the first thing that makes him spoooooooky!” Moriarty brought his hands up to his face and wiggled his fingers. 

The rotten cell had been tossed out for a pristine model. He had a simple bed with clean, steel walls. Instead of cell bars, Moriarty lounged behind a glass wall, hence the Hannibal Lecter jokes. 

Sherlock hesitated. He had clearly progressed significantly. Discovering that Moriarty had not truly come to Sherlock to solve a murder was clearly one half of the answer. While Moriarty was obviously living in comfort, he could still be furious. He wanted to know where they stood. 

”Can you come closer to the glass?” he finally asked, his voice strong. “Hannibal Lecter never talked to Clarice while taking a nap.” 

Moriarty sat up and rubbed his wrists. “You know, I’m really getting sick of these.” He held up his hands and shook his handcuffs. After a lazy yawn, he stood up and meandered over. Sherlock stood up and met the man halfway. 

Dream Moriarty was just as detailed as the man himself. He could see every pour and count every eyelash. His eyes were still fire as he glared at him. 

”Well, Clarice,” Moriarty said, really laying on his Irish drawl. 

”May I speak with you?” Sherlock asked, cocking his head. 

Moriarty giggled. “That’s not the line! You’re disappointing me, Sherlock Holmes.” 

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and smirked. “’You know what you look like to me, with your good bag and your cheap shoes? You look like a rube. A well-scrubbed, hustling rube with little taste. Good nutrition has given you some length of bone, but you're not more than one generation from poor white trash.’” 

Moriarty’s mouth dropped open and he stepped back, putting a hand over his heart. “Well _that_ was certainly not the line!” He showed Sherlock his sleeve. “This costs over £900. So I’d shut my trap if I were you.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I hit a sore spot, didn’t I?” 

” _No,_ you just have to get your facts straight.” A thoughtful look came across Moriarty’s face. “I don’t remember how Buffalo Bill was caught.” 

”The death’s-head hawk moth connected him to the first body they found.” 

”And why was the animal significant?” 

”Because it symbolized change. He wanted to be a woman and no hospital was willing to give him sex reassignment surgery. Thus he killed women to use their skin as body suits.” 

Sherlock was staring at Moriarty. He radiated power and destruction. Standing next to him was like standing inside of a hurricane. He was a sadistic lunatic with no remorse. He was the thing that hid under your bed at night and whispered nightmares into your ear. 

”So,” Moriarty whispered, causing Sherlock to jump, “how do you think Buffalo Bill feels trapped in a man’s body?” 

Sherlock swallowed. “He has a mistaken identity,” Sherlock murmured. 

Moriarty’s eyes widened. “Good, Sherlock.” He was looking at the detective in amazement. “What does that have to do with me?” 

At this, Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I would immediately say that you hide your true self whenever you are in public. Everyone you would encounter wouldn’t know who you truly are.” 

”What am I, Sherlock?” 

”An orb-weaver.” 

Moriarty gave him a lazy smile. “Good boy.” 

After a few moments of silence, Sherlock said, “Richard Brook.” 

Moriarty held up a finger. “Wrong-o” 

Why was this man so frustrating? Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. “The only thing I can think of is that stupid ‘playing gay’ bit you did when you just minced about.” He slid a hand down his face, waiting for Moriarty to patronize him. When he saw the devilish smirk on the man’s face, he raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?” 

”You got it, babe! High five!” Moriarty smacked the glass with his opened palm. The hit reverberated off the walls and Sherlock’s chest. 

Finally, the pieces of the puzzle were starting to align. Soon Sherlock was going to see the final picture. What it was, Sherlock still had to figure out. 

”So pretending to be gay is your mistaken identity?” How boring. 

Moriarty shook his head. “Noooope!” he sang. 

Sherlock grit his teeth. “But you _just said_ that was it!” 

Moriarty pursed his lips and rolled his eyes as he pretended to think. “ _Noooo,_ I don’t think I did.” He knocked on the glass. “Come on, Holmes. I don’t have all day!” 

Sherlock looked down and closed his eyes. He steepled his fingers. “The answer to the question but not the identity. The answer to the question but not the identity-” He gasped and looked up, his blue eyes wide. “ _Oh_.” He straightened up. “So, you’re-” he stuttered. 

“ _Flaming._ ” Moriarty crossed his arms. 

Sherlock stroked his chin. “So, um-” Sherlock stuttered, blinking rapidly, “how long-” 

”How long have I been gay?” Moriarty put his hands in his pocket, looking as amused as a tornado in a trailer park. 

Sherlock shook his head and flicked his wrist. “No, no. Sorry. Just-” he swallowed, “I’m shocked.” 

”Why’s that?” Moriarty tilted his head. “That I’m gay or that I’m attracted to other people?” 

”Both, now that you mention it.” 

”Just because I’m a psychotic criminal doesn’t mean my testosterone has decided to ignore my sex drive. That’s just stupid.” 

Still trying to straighten his thoughts, Sherlock said, “I just assumed that you believed you were too good for anyone. Not to mention sex is a waste of time and you can’t fall in love.” 

Moriarty rolled his head around his shoulders. He groaned in annoyance. “You’re making a lot of assumptions, Sherlock. Of course everyone is beneath me. Sex doesn’t mean anything. You meet, you fuck, they fuck off. I don’t even remember that last one’s name.” Moriarty narrowed his eyes. “I even made an innuendo about it before!” 

”Yes, but they still get your body. The ordinary aren’t supposed to get the privilege.” 

Moriarty’s eyebrows shot up. “My goodness, I didn’t know you were so passionate about my self-worth and sex life.” 

Sherlock flushed. “I’m not. I’m just irritated that I wasn’t able to deduce you after all these years. Those were the characteristics I was going on.” 

”Yeah, okay. You got me _sooooo_ convinced.” Both men paused when they heard a click. Moriarty looked down and laughed. “Well, look at that.” He held up his wrist and gave it a good shake. The opened cuff rattled. “We made some _serious_ progress today!” He pointed at Sherlock. “I’m so proud of you!” he cooed. “Now you’ll just have to figure this out and we’re done-zo!” Moriarty slapped a novel against the glass. 

Sherlock scoffed. “How did you do that?” 

Moriarty shrugged. “Mind palace magic. Do you want to know what it is?” 

”Obviously,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, growing tired of running around in circles. 

Sherlock’s blue eyes flew as he read, “’Carrie, a novel of a girl with a frightening power. By Stephen King.’ He pulled away. “You really do like this man, don’t you?” 

”King is the king.” 

”So what does this have to do with you?” 

With a devious smirk, Moriarty whispered, “You tell me.” 

With a deep sigh, Sherlock opened his eyes. “Well, that was certainly interesting,” he said. 

There was a banging in the kitchen before John’s voice echoed into the living room, “So you were able to go on your own?” 

”Yes, and I was there for much longer.” Sherlock sat up as John moseyed into the living room. “This was definitely the most…informative visit I’ve had. Certainly the most interesting.” 

John threw himself into his chair and tossed Sherlock a golden crunch cream. Sherlock caught it with lightening dexterity and brought the biscuit to his face. 

”Where did you get these?” he asked suspiciously. 

”My arse.” John snorted. “The store, Sherlock. I got them at the store.” John took a bite of his own. “Why?” 

”Chew with your mouth closed!” Sherlock snapped. He inspected the biscuit for several more seconds before taking a nibble. “No reason,” he said after he finished chewing. He pointed to his mouth. “Classy.” 

John had to cover his mouth to keep the crumbs from spewing everywhere as he laughed. “You are the furthest thing from classy. You forget to shower when you’re trying to solve a case. You’re white trash.” 

Dream Moriarty popped into Sherlock’s head. “You’re playing with fire, Watson,” he said with a soft smile. The man seemed so real. He had to keep reminding himself that the Moriarty in his head was not the one he spoke to when he woke up. He had to tread lightly around the real James Moriarty; that man could actually bite. The odd thing was that he was less frightened of him now that he had become so familiar with the dream version. Perhaps his visits acted as some sort of exposure therapy. 

The most disturbing thing to come out of the situation were his feelings towards Moriarty. At least, dream Moriarty. By now he had begun to enjoy their talks, as long as he wasn’t pissed at him for mistreatment. Sherlock noticed that when you took away his ability to kill him and everyone he loved, he could appreciate his sense of humor, quick wit, and sharp tongue. He was having a conversation with someone on his level for the first time and it made him feel less alone. 

That was the unfortunate circumstance, when the one person you could relate to was your adversary. Sherlock was starting to see the potency behind Moriarty’s metaphor. They really were two sides of the same coin, one side was just glowing in the sunlight and the other lay in shadow. 

Now that Sherlock thought of it, his relationship with the real James Moriarty had been evolving. While they initially only communicated professionally with brief, precise, although sassy, texts, they had somehow morphed into all day chats. 

The detective didn’t realize it until now. He took out his phone and opened his messages. All but ten were from the man. Sherlock clicked on a thread. 

_If you orchestrated a murder and then assassin was caught on camera,_

_what would you do?_

_-JM_

_I wouldn’t text Sherlock Holmes about it._

_-SH_

Sherlock barked, making John jump. 

”What’s so funny?” 

Sherlock dismissed him with a flick of his wrist. “Nothing.”  
  
_I want to die.  
_

_-JM_

_Lovely. Saves me a lot of time._

_-SH_

_NO, I’M SERIOUS._

_-JM._

_So am I._

_-SH_

_It’s because Barry Gibb was diddled by his uncle._

_Just came out in an interview._

_-JM_

_Who is Barry Gibb and why should I give a damn?_

_-SH_

_Barry Gibb, son of Hugh and Barbara Gibb, was the co-founder and a lead singer_

_of the BeeGees._

_-JM_

_Disco is dead. And according to google,_

_so are Robin and Maurice._

_-SH_

_As is your brain activity._

_Fuck you._

_-JM_

”Okay, seriously. What are you doing?” John demanded. Sherlock had been so engrossed he didn’t even realize that he was chuckling. 

He put his hands over his eyes. “Nothing. I just found something on the internet.” 

John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Nothing on the internet amuses you. You think everything on there is stupid. Give me that phone.” John leapt up and made a grab for the phone, but Sherlock shot up, standing at his full height on the couch, holding the phone over his head. “Bloody giant bastard,” John muttered, retreating. “I will figure it out,” John threatened, jabbing his finger. 

”I am so terrified,” Sherlock drawled, straightening his jacket before he sat down. 

So,” John huffed. “What did you learn in your mind palace?” 

Sherlock cocked his head. “What? Oh! Yes. Moriarty’s gay,” he said flippantly retreating into his phone. 

” _What_?” John shouted as his jaw dropped. 

”Yes, he’s sexually attracted to men. I would say romantically as well, but obviously not in this case,” Sherlock explained distractedly. 

John held up a hand. “Yes, Sherlock. I’m quite aware of what homosexuality is. I’m just dumbfounded that James Moriarty is gay. I’m shocked he’s _anything._ ” 

”I said the same thing and he got quite irritated.” 

”I…I need time to figure out existence,” John said before he got up and went to his bedroom. 

~*~

”So what do _you_ think I should do?” Moriarty asked, his cheek resting on his palm. He gently twisted back and forth in his desk chair. 

Helmers swallowed. “Um, well. The debates don’t really matter, do they? I mean, I’m going to win either way.” 

Oh, boy. This one really wanted to see what the inside of a coffin looked like. Of course the man had no idea what path he had begun to travel on as Moriarty gave him a soft smile. He pressed the phone closer to his ear. 

”Of _course_ , you’ll still win. Don’t worry about that,” he assured. “I take care of my friends. Can I call you my friend, Jason?” 

The man didn’t answer immediately, clearly weary of what Moriarty’s M.O. “Of course, Mr. Moriarty.” 

Moriarty sighed. “That’s really nice to hear. That means we can be honest with each other, tell each other our biggest secrets, you know?” 

”Um, yes.” 

”You looked like a complete jerk out there.” He placed a hand to his chest. “It gave me secondhand embarrassment. _That_ was how bad it was. I _literally_ cringed.” Moriarty started to chew his pen. “That’s not good. It’s like, the opposite of good. If someone came up to me and was like, ‘Hey, Jim! What’s no good?’ I would say, ‘Jason Helmer’s performance at the first debate.’ Then I would probably smack them because they had no right to call by my first name. ” 

Helmers began to sound panicked. “It won’t happen again! I swear. I’ll prepare next time.” 

Moriarty’s eyes widened. “You _didn’t prepare for the debate?_ ” he said softly. 

”Like I said, I thought it was in the bag.” 

Moriarty smirked. “You know what? I’m going to take this time to instill some knowledge in that little brain of yours. I have a really pretty Irish proverb for you that I believe is very relevant to our situation.” 

”O-okay.” 

”’If roses grow in heaven, pick some for me,’” Moriarty breathed before a rain of bullets screamed into the phone speaker. There was a blanket of silence for a couple minutes before the phone was picked up. 

”You there, boss?” 

”I’m assuming you were able to put my friend and all of his cronies down?” 

Moran coughed before he answered. “Yes. He’s gone.” 

Moriarty pumped his fist. “We _tooootally_ Michael Corleone’d that!” He stomped his feet. “Does this make me the Godfather?” 

”I think so. So we’re done with this whole thing?” 

The criminal snorted. “Doi! The last thing I want to do is get into American politics. Just kill the hunter and I’ll break the news to Sherlock the next time I see that fine ass.” 

”Can you not?” 

”What?” Moriarty asked, feigning ignorance. 

”Flaunt your weird crush that I still don’t understand.” 

Moriarty snickered. “Just wait until I actually snatch him and flaunt the man himself.” 

”You’re going to break him. Everything you touch dies, either physically or psychologically.” 

Moriarty nodded his head. “Probably, yes. You can’t just ignore something caught in your web when it’s pulling at the strings.” He was going to continue, but his phone beeped. “Sorry. Getting another call. Gotta go!” 

”Who is it?” 

”The fly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was a beast to make up for the last two short ones. HUGE THANK YOU to **nightwalk7** for suggesting that Dream Moriarty read _Carrie_. It has given me an _amazing_ plot device that I would not have thought of. 
> 
> I think I've officially established Moriarty being in love with Barry Gibb in all of my Sheriarty universes


	13. The Great Fall

Sherlock wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to say to Moriarty, or why he was even calling in the first place. The real man hadn’t asked him to figure out his sexuality. Just when he realized that what he was doing was stupid, a musical voice greeted him. 

”Helloooo?” 

”He-” Sherlock coughed, “lo. How…are you?” Pleasantries were not his area. He was answered with a familiar chuckle. 

”It was utterly repulsive until you called.” 

”That’s…good.” Christ, what was this? He had half a mind to hang up, but his hand had frozen. 

”How are _you,_ buttercup?” 

Sherlock had begun to drum his fingers on the couch’s armrest in anxiety. “I had a very interesting trip to my mind palace today and I think we should talk about it. In person.” 

Moriarty took in a sharp breath. “Are you asking me out on a _date,_ Mr. Holmes?” 

”No!” Sherlock denied, a little too enthusiastically. “No,” he repeated in a calmer tone. “I just need to discuss some important issues. It’s a meeting.” 

”Well that’s boring.” 

”I’m not trying to be entertaining.” 

Moriarty groaned. “Is it really that important? I really don’t want to schlep all the way to that poorly decorated flat.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry that my rug isn’t imported from Italy.” 

”Good rugs are from Persia, China, Tibet, Turkey, Afghanistan, and Egypt. Even if you did get your rug from Italy you would be tacky.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I’m not a rug expert.” 

”I’m not either. It’s just common knowledge.” 

”No one casually knows what country has the best rugs!” Sherlock snapped. “God, why are we talking about this? Just come over here!” He cut the line with a harsh jab. He sat there for a moment, brewing in annoyance. 

”Where you just arguing about rugs with someone?” John shouted from his room. 

Hearing it from John made Sherlock let out a small laugh. “You’re going to have to leave for a bit,” he said. “Your favorite person is going to come over to discuss that mind palace trip. 

John came out of his room, wide-eyed. “You’re actually going to ask him about it?” 

”Obviously,” Sherlock said flatly. 

”That is going to be a very interesting talk. Do you think he’ll be pissed?” 

Sherlock thought for a couple of seconds before he answered, “No. The version in my dream wouldn’t have told me if he didn’t want me to know.” 

”God, this whole thing is crazy.” 

”Incredibly. Now get out.” Sherlock gestured to the door. “I need to go to my mind palace before he gets here. There’s one more thing I have to solve.” 

John was already shrugging on his coat. “Gone,” he said, slipping out the door, more than happy to leave. 

With a deep breath, Sherlock lay down and closed his eyes. 

The only light was coming from the small desk lamp on the shelf next to Moriarty’s bed. 

”Burn them all! Get em’,girl!” Moriarty said, turning the page of his book. “Justice at its finest!” 

Sherlock knocked on the glass. “Moriarty.” 

The lamp was turned off, enveloping Sherlock in an eerie blackness. In a second, the entire asylum burst into light, making the detective shield his eyes with his arm. 

”You caught me by surprise, Sherlock,” Moriarty said. He was standing right behind the glass. 

”I need to figure out what your book symbolizes.” 

”Well, you better do it quick because I’m on my way to see you.” 

Sherlock pointed to the book on Moriarty’s bed. “What is that about?” 

Moriarty looked over his shoulder. “Oh, that?” He jabbed his thumb behind his back. “It’s about a girl named Carrie. She gets severely bullied in high school and lives in an abusive home with a crazy religious mother. But she ends up getting the last laugh because she has telekinetic powers and kills the whole school.” He grinned. “If that’s not divine justice, then I don’t know what is.” 

”That’s not justice. That is mass murder, just like school shootings.” 

Moriarty snorted. “Which are _also_ awesome when it is done by kids who were picked on. Pushed me to the ground? Have a bullet or two in the head!” Moriarty began to cackle. “It was so inspirational.” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “How does it end?” 

Moriarty lost his smile. “She dies.” 

Sherlock smirked. “ _That’s_ divine justice.” 

”That’s divine justice,” Moriarty mocked, irritated. “Whatever.” 

Sherlock could only smile smugly. “So why do you like this book?” 

”You know what?” Moriarty put his hands in his pockets. “I’m not going to tell you. Figure it out.” 

”With pleasure.” 

”Be quick about it. I’m almost there,” Moriarty sang. 

Becoming a little frantic, Sherlock began. “The last book you showed me was significant because you related to a protagonist. You have no reason to change the formula, so there is someone of importance in the plot. Based on your violent nature and your recent admiration of those who seek revenge for their bullying, it’s easy to say that you identify with Carrie because of your experience with Carl Powers as a child. You did take revenge and murdered him. What I need to do is figure out its relevancy.” 

Moriarty smirked. “Good. You definitely deserve a Scoobie Snack.” 

Sherlock stroked his chin. “Obviously Carl was your tipping point for your criminal life and descent into madness.” 

”Oh, believe me. I was mad since I first blinked my eyes.” 

”Sh!” Sherlock waved him away with his hand as he thought. “You got to mess about with me. That was certainly a climax of your lunacy.” He turned to Moriarty. “Does it have to do with me?” 

Moriarty pursed his lips as his eyes darted around his cell. “Maaaaaybe.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “So it has to do with me.” 

Moriarty leaned back and spread his hands out. “You officially have all of the pieces, Sherlock. All you have to do is put them together and I can get this bastard off.” He shook his wrist, making his handcuffs rattle. 

”I don’t see how your sexuality has to do with anything except you just wanting attention.” 

At this, Moriarty sighed and dropped his head. 

Sherlock was taken aback. “Did I genuinely upset you?” 

”Just THINK, YOU IDIOT!” Moriarty snarled, smashing his fists against the glass. “Are you fucking, _stupid_?” He brought his hands up, curling his fingers like he was going to throttle Sherlock. “I’m genuinely about to change my mind.” 

Sherlock could only stare at him, his mind completely empty for the first time in his life. 

Moriarty rolled his eyes. “Okay, you want me to walk you through it, doofus?” He put one hand out, palm out. “Gayer than Liberace himself,” he brought up his other palm, “and it has to do with you.” 

Sherlock was about to demand an answer when it hit him. His mouth dropped and he pointed to his chest. 

”Me?” he mouthed, unable to use his voice. 

Moriarty nodded, finally relaxed. “You.” 

Sherlock wasn’t sure what to do. He patted himself down in disbelief, confirming that he was real. “ _Me?_ ” 

”You know, for a detective you’re quite stupid,” Moriarty said, but there was no maliciousness behind it. In fact, his voice had become rather gentle. 

Sherlock swallowed. “Why?” 

”Why don’t you ask me? I’m right outside your door.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “You’re here?” 

”It seems so.” He held up his wrist. “And look at that.” The cuff finally slid off his wrist. Moriarty sighed, rubbing the chafed skin. “It was nice to meet you.” 

Sherlock’s heart dropped. “I won’t see you again?” 

Moriarty chuckled. “I’m not real, Sherlock. You don’t need me anymore. The real one is right outside your flat and it getting really irritated. I’d go check on him. I think you have a lot to talk about.” With a small wave, he disappeared and Sherlock opened his eyes. 

”Sherlock Holmes, I will break everything you own if you don’t answer this door in the next ten seconds. One…” 

Sherlock leapt from the couch and grabbed the doorknob. Wild-eyed, he opened the door. 

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you would be so excited to see me. It must be my sheer _animal magnetism._ ” He brushed passed Sherlock and stepped into the apartment. “Okay,” he clapped his hands together and rocked back on his heels. “What could Sherlock Holmes so desperately want from James Moriarty?” 

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. How could he even address the subject? _Should_ he address the subject? He had no idea what would happen if he did. If Moriarty did feel the way Dream Moriarty had told him, he would be forgiving, but you could never know with the man. What was up was down with him. One couldn’t leave an encounter with James Moriarty without their head spun backwards. So Sherlock just stood there, staring at him in silence. 

Moriarty scrunched his nose. “Have you lost it?” He walked up to Sherlock and waved a hand in front of his face. “Helloooo, is anyone in there?” When Sherlock didn’t answer, Moriarty scoffed. “Waste of my time.” Just as he was about to open the door, Sherlock spoke. 

”Gay.” It wasn’t the most articulate way to breach the topic, but it was a start. 

Moriarty froze. “What was that?” He turned around and blinked innocently. 

Sherlock put a hand to his forehead. “Sorry. I meant to tell you that I know that you are gay.” 

Moriarty raised his eyebrows. “Oh, and why do you think that?” He began to slowly walk towards Sherlock. 

”Dream you told me.” 

”Ah,” Moriarty put his hands in his pockets, “ _dream me_ told you.” The tip of the men’s shoes touched. Moriarty tilted his head. “Would it bother you if I was?” he asked. 

Sherlock did his best not to fidget. The man was _incredibly_ pretty. “No, I just didn’t expect it. I assumed you weren’t interested in that area at all. Dream you had a bloody fit over that.” 

Moriarty gave him a crooked smile. “I’m really liking this dream me.” He pulled Sherlock down and pressed his forehead to his. “Did _you_ like dream me?” 

”He could be a bit of a prick sometimes but overall, yes.” Sherlock’s heart had started to beat at a frightening pace as the man before him licked his lips. 

Moriarty let out a breathy laugh, and this time he didn’t try to hide it. He slid his arms around Sherlock’s neck. “What did you like about…him?” 

Sherlock couldn’t speak. He was beyond the realm of coherent thought. He swallowed thickly and took in every detail of the man. He had been wrong all of these years. Moriarty’s eyes were not bottomless, black pits, but a warm brown. His skin was fair and completely unblemished, something Sherlock was sure he worked very hard to achieve. 

Or maybe not. He was quite perfect. 

He had a sharp jaw, blinding white teeth- 

”Ow!” Moriarty had begun to bang his forehead against Sherlock’s. 

“Sherlock! Where’d you go?” 

”Nothing! What was the question?” 

Moriarty huffed and rolled his eyes. “What did you like about dream me?” 

”Oh, right.” Sherlock coughed into his fist. “He was incredibly quick-witted and cheeky,” Sherlock hesitated, “and rather dashing.” 

Moriarty’s mouth slid into a sly grin. “Ever kissed a boy?” 

”Every kissed a girl?” 

Moriarty gagged. “Yuck!” His eyes flicked down to Sherlock’s lips. “Now let’s do something with that pretty mouth.” 

Sherlock’s heart jumped into his throat when the man pulled him down for a long overdue kiss. Every sense exploded as the neurons in his limbic system sparked in a way they never had before. Moriarty tasted like spearment and smelled like…he wasn’t quite sure, but he smelled expensive. Sherlock sighed into his mouth and lifted his hands, wanting to dive into Moriarty’s hair, but he wasn’t sure if he would be pissed if he messed with his pristine part. 

Clearly, Moriarty could read minds because without cracking open an eye, his fingers clamped down on Sherlock’s wrists and pulled his fingers into his hair. With a growl, Sherlock gave it a good tug. 

”Look at you, Sherlock Holmes,” Moriarty purred, gently nipping at his jaw, “gay in twenty seconds.” His grip on the nape of Sherlock’s neck grew tighter as he slipped his tongue into the detective’s mouth without a hint of permission. He was demanding, unforgiving, and utterly amazing. When Sherlock began to claw at Moriarty’s lapels, the men gently pushed him back. “No, no, no.” He chuckled. “Don’t mess with the clothes.” 

Sherlock pulled back and got a good look at Moriarty and laughed. “Your hair looks ridiculous.” 

With a roll of his eyes and a comb that appeared out of thin air, Moriarty quickly rectified his wild hair. “Stop acting juvenile. If you’re hanging off my arm you can’t be acting like a fool.” 

This caught Sherlock by surprise. “Off your arm?” 

Moriarty stepped back. “I assumed you weren’t going to run about after this.” 

”No, of course not,” Sherlock said, batting away the idea with his hand. “I just assumed that this wasn’t serious for you.” 

Moriarty narrowed his eyes. “I found two politicians to run for the presidency of the United States and had both of them killed to get your attention. And apparently I even barged my way into your head. I _think_ I’m going to be tied down unless you do something stupid.” 

”This is absolutely ludicrous,” Sherlock murmured, putting a hand to his forehead. 

”Don’t think about it,” Moriarty said, taking Sherlock by the chin and bringing his lips to his. 

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s easier said than done. I just snogged James Moriarty for five straight minutes.” 

”Jim. You snogged Jim.” 

”Jim,” Sherlock parroted, nodding his head thoughtfully. “You know I learned to read by reading a book about a crab named Jim.” 

Jim reached up and landed a sharp bite on Sherlock’s earlobe, causing him to jump. “You better shut that pretty mouth.” His fingers dived into Sherlock’s dark curls and he crashed their lips together. 

”OH MY GOD!” There was a loud crash. 

Sherlock immediately jumped away in surprise, his eyes wide in shock and embarrassment. Unsurprisingly, Jim was completely unfazed by John’s sudden appearance. 

”Hey, short stuff. How’s it going?” he taunted with a smirk. 

John was standing in the doorway, holding a bag of groceries and his key to the flat. There was a puddle of jam that had exploded all over the floor, explaining the crash. 

”What _the fuck_ is going on?” he demanded, abandoning the groceries on the floor and slamming the door with his foot. 

Jim spun around and wrapped Sherlock’s arms around his waist. “Sherlock _like-likes_ me. You have two daddies, now.” 

”Jim, shut up!” Sherlock said through gritted teeth, jabbing him with his knee. 

” _Jim_ ” John said, venom dripping from his voice. “Now he’s _Jim?_ ” He bawled a fist. “I swear to god, if you’re not just having a laugh-” 

”I think you should leave,” Sherlock said quietly, running the tip of his fingers down Jim’s back. 

Jim blew a raspberry. “Are you kidding me? Because the dog won’t stop barking?” 

”If you don’t shut your mouth, Moriarty, I swear…” 

”Oh, I’m so scared!” Moriarty mocked, his voice going up an octave as he pretended to weep. 

”No, he punched me once in the face and I fell flat on my back,” Sherlock assured. “He was in the army. The man is a beast.” 

”And you’re a fucking twig, so I can’t even imagine what would happen to you,” John snapped. 

Jim sighed and held up his hands. “Fine, fine. I know when I’m not wanted.” He turned around. “C’mere, baby.” He weaved his fingers through Sherlock’s hair before giving him a long, languid, obviously trying to piss off John, kiss. “Aloha!” He spun on his heel and strolled to the door. “Nice to see you, John.” He gave the man a wink before slipping out of the flat. 

There was a heavy, awkward silence between the two men for a very uncomfortable amount of time. Finally, John decided to break it. 

_”Sherlock, what in the everlasting fuck is that…slimy, dirty, manipulative, murdering bastard_ doing in our flat and on your mouth?” 

Sherlock gestured to John’s chair. He had a lot of explaining to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ABOUT.  
> DAMN.  
> TIME.
> 
> This chapter is sponsored by insomnia and the book I read as a child about a crab named Jim.


	14. Superstition

The look John Watson was giving Sherlock Holmes was nothing short of deadly. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair, unsettled by his best friend’s scrutiny. 

“You better have the most _amazing_ reason for snogging James Moriarty in our living room.” 

Sherlock took a deep breath. He wasn’t only going to explain it to John, but to himself as well. “I have grown up without the ability to relate to a single person. No one has been able to match my intelligence and put up with my anti-social personality. There is not one person I haven’t offended. I push people _away_. 

“But I-” 

Sherlock held up a finger. “Let me finish, John.” When the man went quiet, Sherlock continued. “These things have made life boring. It is a constant state of monotony that makes functioning unbearable, which is why I am in my line of work. Solving crime is stimulating. The chase is what keeps me alive, what keeps the blood flowing in my veins.” There was a glint in a Sherlock’s eye that hadn’t been there before. “Then Moriarty came along, and for the first time in my life, I was challenged. I was forced to use everything I had to win, to _survive._ I was finally alive. The man himself was absolutely brilliant, the first and only person who was my equal.” Sherlock hung his head. “As long as…Jim is alive, I’m not alone.” 

John sighed. “But why do you have to be _involved_ with him?” He rested his forehead on his palm. 

Sherlock gracefully crossed one long leg over the over. “That, I cannot tell you. He’s incredibly charming when he’s not trying to kill you.” 

“You do know that he will never care about you the way you care about him, right?” 

Sherlock snorted. “Obviously, the man is psychotic. This whole thing is already ridiculous.” 

“You say that now, but you’re going to feel different if you fall in love with him. _God forbid_.” 

At that, Sherlock laughed. “Love is nothing more than a concoction of neuro-transmitters that I do not fall prey to.” 

With all of the trepidation in the world, John shook his head. “If he makes you happy, I’m not going to step in the way. But if he tries to pull something, I’ll be more than happy to toss him over to the Scotland Yard.” 

Sherlock stood up and straightened his sjacket. “It sounds reasonable,” he said as he grabbed his phone. 

_Outside. Now._

_xoxo_

_-JM_  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m going out.” He shrugged on his coat. “I’m not sure where I’m going or when I’ll be coming back.” 

John gave Sherlock a scathing look. “You’re going to meet him, aren’t you?” 

“Goodbye, John.” Sherlock slipped out of the flat and made his way down the stairs. He wasn’t sure what to expect. He had been frequently visiting Dream Moriarty, but never had he spent time with the real man without negotiating for his life. This was going to be quite an experience. 

“Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective stepping out to spend the day with little ol’ me,” Jim drawled. “I never thought I’d see the day.” 

Sherlock turned. Jim was leaning against the flat, arms and ankles casually crossed. He brought his sunglasses down so that he could get a good looked at Sherlock. “That’s actually a lie. I always get what I want.” He smirked and pushed the glasses back up the bridge of his nose. 

“Expect that to change,” Sherlock countered, putting his hands in his pockets and already having fun. 

Jim sighed. “Thirty seconds into this and I am already entertained.” He sighed in satisfaction. 

Both men were getting exactly what they wanted. 

“Get those legs that go on for days over here.” Jim jabbed his head at the spot next to him. 

Still not used to _James Moriarty_ having a crush on him and verbally expressing it, Sherlock flushed, but he hid it well. 

“One,” Jim said when Sherlock stood next to him, “I am still free to be the psychotic bastard that I am and can orchestrate my dastardly deeds. Two, you will not stick your nose in and moan about it. And three, don’t even think about prancing off to the Scotland Yard. I may dig you, but I always come first,” he said much too flippantly, flicking his wrist. 

Sherlock had already expected this, so his answer came easily. “As long as you do not touch anyone that is important to me.” 

Jim nodded. “Fair. Absolutely annoying and disgustingly sentimental, but fair. But,” he held up a finger, “if one of them goes after me, they go ‘bye-bye!’” He gave a little wave and an unsettling smiled. 

“Now, don’t even think of pulling something over me. I will catch you, and I _will_ turn you in over that.” Sherlock smirked. “I come first as well. Now, the second you threaten me, I’m gone. I don’t have the time or the patience to deal with you. Finally, shut your trap about John.” He flipped his collar up. 

Jim looked Sherlock up and down. “Woof!” 

Sherlock noticed that there was one ear bud in Jim’s ear. “Bee Gees?” 

Jim snorted. “Moved on. Believe me, I love them, but they’re so out of style.” He tapped the ear bud. “Superstition by Stevie Wonder.” 

“I look forward to hear your intricate philosophy behind this one.” Sherlock gave him a crooked grin. This was going to be interesting. 

Jim smirked and placed the other ear bud in Sherlock’s ear. “Prepare to be schooled, pretty boy.” 

To Sherlock’s surprise, rather than a cheesy disco tune, he was met with a smooth, soul – funk sound. Jim must have seen the look on Sherlock’s face because he looked rather smug. 

“It begins with lyrical references to basic pop cultural superstitions, such as walking under ladders, breaking mirrors, and all of that stupid nonsense all of these sheep believe in.” Jim took ahold of Sherlock’s arm and slowly gestured to all of the people in front of them. “Good ol’ Stevie explains that believing in superstitions, all things that are beyond their stupid little brains, makes them suffer.” He popped piece of a gum in his mouth. “We create our own fear, Sherlock. I take that and make it into a reality.” 

Sherlock sighed and continued to enjoy the song, much to his annoyance. 

“Don’t feel bad about liking an actual musician,” Jim teased, reading him like a book. “Man’s a multi instrumental, soul, jazz, and R&B musician. To top it all off, the fucker is blind.” He pointed at Sherlock. “I’d like to see you play the violin blind.” 

Sherlock sighed. He did feel better. 

Jim put his phone away. “Enough with creative analysis today. Let’s ditch this lame-o street and do something that is actually fun.” Without further explanation, Jim looped his arm around Sherlock’s and began to walk, dragging the detective with him. 

“What the devil are you doing?” Sherlock demanded, stumbling after him. 

“Taking you somewhere spooky,” Jim said simply, putting his hands in his pockets when Sherlock finally caught up. 

“People are always going to look, Sherlock,” Jim said casually, noticing the man had been looking around self-consciously. “We’re either an abomination or adorable. Either way, no one looks at us normally.” 

“Has it ever bothered you?” 

“I think you know the answer to that.” He spit his gum out. 

Sherlock smirked. It really was a stupid question. 

“But it will probably start to,” he made the ‘ok’ sign, “ _irritate_ me now.” 

A child jumped into a puddle in front of them, making a giant splash. Without a thought, Jim shoved the boy to the ground and continued to walk, not even giving a second glance. 

Sherlock looked behind his shoulder as the boy began to cry. He watched as his mother ran to help him up. “Was that really necessary?” he asked flatly. 

“Nope!” Jim giggled. “You need to learn to lighten up.” He took Sherlock’s hand and kissed the back of it. “I’ve planned for a fun day and I can’t have you being a sour puss.” 

When Sherlock continued to look around, Jim scoffed. “I thought such plebian behavior was beneath you. You’re disappointing me, Sherlock.” Jim let out a small sound when he was jerked back. Sherlock had come to a dead stop and was staring at him with a look he could not figure out. 

_’You’re disappointing me, Sherlock.’_ For a moment he thought he was back in his mind palace, looking at his Morairty. The one who loved Stephen King and golden crunch creams. 

“Jim?” 

“Sherlock?” Jim mimicked, letting go of him and crossing his arms. 

Sherlock took a step forward, a sly look on his face. “What are your opinions on Stephen King?” 

Morairty only stood there, his mouth a thin line. Sherlock felt crestfallen. Right when he was going to turn around, a lazy smile spread across Jim’s face. “King is the king.” He leaned back and threw his arms out, looking at the sky. “The bastard has an iron gate in front of his home in the shape of a spider-web, with gargoyle bats.” He held up a finger. “He is the one of the two only people I consider actually worth something.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Barry Gibb?” 

“Bless him.” Jim sighed dreamily. 

Sherlock took another step forward. The two men were only inches apart. “Would your favorite books happen to be _Carrie_ and _Misery_?” 

Slowly, Moriarty pushed his glasses up onto his head. His brown eyes bore into Sherlock’s soul until his expression softened into an amused one. 

“You are a good detective, Sherlock Holmes.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “The best.” Sherlock took Jim’s hand and began to drag him down the street, not knowing where they were going, but making it very clear that he had a hand on the steering wheel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long! I actually don't have a plot beyond what I wrote so I'm kind of choking. An idea hit me the other day, but I really need to sit on it. I know where I want to go with it, but I don't know how to get there.
> 
> I'm sorry this was short. I just really wanted to get something out for you to read. I hope it was still enjoyable.


	15. Irish Trash

“If you made me walk twenty minutes just to be in a dirty alleyway, then this is not going to work,” Sherlock grumbled as Jim pulled Sherlock into just that. 

Jim looked over his shoulder, giving Sherlock a more devious smirk than the devil himself could pull off. “This is only a detour, sweetheart. I’d never allow a single second of our time together be boring.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow when he stopped. “I highly doubt you can control and plan every aspect of our lives. Life doesn’t work that way.” 

Jim turned and slid his glasses up. He put his hands to Sherlock’s chest. “Do you really doubt me?” 

Sherlock smirked. “Perhaps I spoke too soon.” If anyone could control space and time, it was James Moriarty. 

Jim shoved Sherlock against the building and began to un-button the man’s coat. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, a note of panic in his voice. He had completely stiffened by the time Jim had released the last button. 

“Playing,” Moriarty purred before slipping Sherlock’s coat off. He dragged his fingers from his chest to his abdomen before he clamped his fists around the waistband of his trousers. “So, how’s your first day of finally coming out of that musty closet?” 

Sherlock snorted, doing his best to remain aloof while the gorgeous man played with his trousers, tracing the band around his waist and toying the fabric with his fingers. “I’m not gay. I’m just…” 

“Just what?” Jim asked innocently with a sweet pout. “Involved with a man? You don’t just snog a man and let him pull you into a janky alley to get a hand job. You can’t ‘play gay,’ Sherlock.’” He winked before running his tongue along Sherlock’s jaw, making him shiver. 

Once the detective recovered, which took several seconds, he snorted. “You certainly did.” 

Jim puckered his lips and rolled his eyes in good humor. “Nooooo, I don’t think I did. I _played_ playing gay. Big difference, sweetheart.” 

“You got me there,” Sherlock grumbled. Just as the words left his lips, he gasped. “’Hand job?’” 

Jim rolled his eyes, this time irritated at Sherlock’s ignorance. “No, a foot promotion. _Yes,_ a hand job.” Jim nibbled on his earlobe as he began to fiddle with Sherlock’s pants button. 

Sherlock leaned his head back and repressed a sigh with a thick swallow. “Why the devil would you do that?” He slapped Jim’s hand away. 

Jim shook his hand, trying to wave off the pain. “You like it rough, huh?” Jim sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He looked at the ground solemnly. “I was just trying to be a good boyfriend and get your rocks off, but it seems I’m once again unwanted.” He sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Poor Jim.” 

He had turned on his heel when a hand clamped around his wrist. Jim immediately smirked. “Can I help you?” he asked, not turning around because he wanted Sherlock to say it. 

His pride caused Sherlock to pause. “I,” he started slowly, “I want you.” 

Jim closed his eyes and let out a small, breathy groan that Sherlock couldn’t hear. A tiny smirk played on his lips. “Sherlock Holmes, you drive a hard bargain.” He sauntered over and pressed himself flush against the man. Jim looked down as he spoke, keeping his eyes on the prize and wanting to make Sherlock as uncomfortable and adorable as possible. 

The situation finally hit Sherlock in full force. He looked down at Jim in a mixture of confusion and amazement. “Boyfriend?” 

At this, Jim did looked up. He raised an ‘are you stupid’ eyebrow. “Um, ah- _doi!”_ He narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t think I was your fuckboy, did you? That’s a tad insulting. Why, do you have a problem with it?” He ran his fingers down the end of Sherlock’s jacket. 

Although he didn’t know why, Sherlock relaxed and his signature cocky smirk spread across his face. “Absolutely not,” he said slowly, enunciating each syllable. 

Jim licked his lips. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.” 

For the second time that day, Jim pressed Sherlock against the wall and collided their lips together in an open mouth kiss with no sense of gentleness. Their tongues immediately met ferociously, just like their relationship. Jim’s hands immediately dove into Sherlock’s hair, tugging and pulling as he ground his hips against Sherlock’s. 

“Pretty hair for a pretty boy,” he cooed, his lips hot when they were pressed against Sherlock’s ear. He gave it a nip before snapping at the skin on Sherlock’s neck. He sucked just above his throbbing pulse, making the detective let out a sigh. 

To Jim’s surprise, Sherlock pulled back and took Jim by the chin, making the man look at him. “You are a very sexually charged man.” 

Jim’s eyes widened. If he hadn’t just been kissing him, Sherlock would have been afraid. 

To be honest, he still was. 

Jim hummed before leaning forward and giving Sherlock a sloppy kiss. “Yes, buuuut,” he breathed as he mauled Sherlock. He grabbed his hand and pinned it above his head, “never like this.” 

“Explain,” Sherlock demanded, suddenly very bold. He slipped his hand under Jim’s blazer and clawed at his back. He ran his fingers through Jim’s hair, earning a groan. 

Jim ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “I have been wanting to tear you apart since I was a wee lad. I became _obsessed_ with you when I learned about who and,” he bit Sherlock’s lower lip, “what you were. Then I met you and enjoyed your clever clap back to my innuendo and I became attached.” To Sherlock’s utter surprise, Jim stopped looking amused for a moment and he pulled back. “When you held up your arms and dive bombed off that building like an idiot, I _needed_ you.” 

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up. “You saw me fall?” 

Jim rolled his eyes and spun around. He walked across the ally and leaned against the opposite wall. He shrugged. “Yeah, okay. I may have taken a peak and chased after you before you did something stupid. I may have even called you a langer.” Jim looked up and chuckled. “I was in such a panic that you brought out the Irish trash I had worked so hard to put in the vault.” A corner of his mouth quirked. “And I honestly hate you for it.” 

The men stared at each other for a few moments before Sherlock started to laugh. “What does that even mean?” Sherlock mimicked an Irish accent. “ _Langer._ I really wish I hadn’t jump just so I could have heard that.” He put his hand over his mouth as he chuckled. “Irish trash …honestly.” 

“It means _idiot_ or _fool_. What you’re being right now.” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and strode over to Jim in only two steps. It was Jim’s turn to be against the wall. Sherlock slammed his palms on either side of his head, the brick rough on his hands. He grabbed Jim by the jaw and pulled his head backwards, giving him full access to his smooth, fair skin. He leaned forward and bit the flesh right next to the man’s Adam’s apple. Working it between his teeth, Sherlock began to suck the soft skin. 

“You’ve certainly come to terms with kissing a boy,” Jim drawled, his eyes had closed when the detective began to ravage his neck. 

“Oh, so you admit you’re human?” Sherlock murmured into Jim’s ear. His voice was deep and low. It took everything in Jim not to shiver. 

Jim opened his eyes and jumped. “What is that?” 

“What?” Sherlock could only look over his shoulder for a moment before Jim had Sherlock back against the wall. 

Jim grabbed onto Sherlock’s lapels. “I just…had to put things back the way they should be.” 

“Oh, so you’re always the one calling the shots?” 

“Yes.” 

“No.” Before he could elaborate, Jim slipped his hand down to Sherlock’s crotch, causing him to jump. 

“Oh,” Jim pouted. “Did I just hear a gasp?” When Jim gave the bulge another stroke, Sherlock’s breath hitched. A devilish smile spread across Jim’s face. He reached up and gave Sherlock a chaste kiss before placed his fingers just above Sherlock’s waistband. He began to sneak them up his abdomen. 

“The itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the water spout,” he sang softly, his fingers had reached Sherlock’s collarbone. “Down came the rain,” Jim scuttled his fingers back down to Sherlock’s lower stomach, “and washed the spider out. Out came the sun,” Sherlock watched as Jim's fingers danced in invisible shapes around his chest, “and dried up all the rain.” Jim looked up and bit his lip. “And the itsy-bitsy spider fell down that spout again.” Jim began to undo Sherlock’s trousers. 

Sherlock shook his head. “That’s not how it goes.” 

“I’m aware, but I’m the spider and I chose to go _doooown_ ,” he sang before he let out a whistle. “Now,” he looked down, slipping his hand into Sherlock’s clothes, “come to daddy.” Both men moaned when Jim got ahold of Sherlock’s dick with a firm grasp. He buried the top of his head into Sherlock’s stomach, gazing at his prize. “Your prick is…awesome. It’s awesome, Sherlock.” He gave him a single pump. 

“ _Shit!_ ” Sherlock gasped, completely caught off guard. He didn’t have time to recover because Jim had already begun to stroke him at a slow pace, and Sherlock’s mind had gone somewhere else. His hand hovered above Moriarty’s head, which was still buried in his stomach. He swallowed thickly before he began to play with Jim’s hair, having to touch the man in some way while he was making him feel this good. “Jim?” he croaked. 

Jim immediately looked up, never pausing with his work. “Yes, baby?” 

“Come here.” 

Moriarty grinned and straightened up, continuing to work Sherlock. “What can I do for you?” 

Sherlock leaned down and gave Jim a languid kiss. He cupped Jim’s face as he began to slowly rock into his boyfriend’s hand. 

“You’re so gay,” Jim teased as Sherlock began to flush. His hand began to move faster. 

Sherlock let out a strangled groan before he buried his face into Jim’s hair. He clutched at his blazer, pulling and pawing. 

Jim looked down. “We’re almost _thereeee!_ ” he chimed, wiping pre cum onto his thumb. He pulled Sherlock down into a sloppy kiss, quieting his whimper. 

“Jim,” Sherlock choked, pressing him to his shoulder and kissing his forehead. “ _Fuck!_ ” He threw his head back. 

With a content sigh, Jim placed a trail of kisses down Sherlock’s neck, all the way down to his collarbone. “Come on, sweetheart. Daddy wants to see that ‘o face.’” 

With a desperate breath and a red face, Sherlock finally came. 

“There we go,” Jim whispered. He had stepped aside as he worked him through. “There we go. Shhhh…” Before Sherlock could get a word in edge wise, Jim had Sherlock clean and tucked in. 

“Shut up, Jim!” Sherlock snapped through gritted teeth, looking left and right. 

“Pffft…” Jim batted him away. “If they didn’t hear you moaning and groaning then they’re not going to hear us now.” When Sherlock blushed and ran a hand down his face, Jim chuckled. “You’re adorable when you’re vulnerable.” There was a silence for a few moments before Jim held up a finger. “You know,” he began, slowly approaching Sherlock, “do you know the definition of vulnerability?” 

“The quality or state of being exposed,” Sherlock answered flawlessly, his voice conveying none of the confusion he was feeling. Why did Jim suddenly seem so foreboding? 

Jim put a hand in his pocket. “What kind of things tend to be _vulnerable_ , Sherlock?” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. None of this was making any sense. “Things that are exposed. Things that are w-” 

“Things that are _weak_ , Sherlock!” Jim smacked one of his hands on his open palm. “And do you know what it means when you are afraid of some passerby noticing that your boyfriend is giving you a hand job?” He bowed and flicked his wrist, gesturing for Sherlock to answer. 

“It makes me a sensible person,” Sherlock drawled. 

Jim stood up. “No. It makes you _weak!_ ” Jim’s eyes were burning coals as he stepped towards Sherlock. “I’m not with you because you’re weak.” By the time Jim was face to face with Sherlock, his eyes had become a warm brown. “I’m with you because you defy the natural order. You are _above_ the ordinary.” He shook his head. “The second you fall, is the second you _fall_. For real, this time, Sherlock.” Jim closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s. “I adore you, Sherlock Holmes, but it is the furthest thing from unconditional.” 

Sherlock took a deep breath, staring at the psychopath who stood before him. He studied him. His face was relaxed and his hair was slightly askew. He had forgotten to immediately fix it due to his tirade. 

“Promise me that I get to see more Irish trash Jim and I think I can manage.” 

Jim pulled away and scowled before he shoved Sherlock. As he began to make his way out of the alley, he grumbled, “Bloody geebag.” 

Sherlock couldn’t help but grin. 

Jim looked over his shoulder. “Are you coming, or not? I do have things to do.” 

Sherlock pushed himself off the wall and grabbed his coat. “No you don’t,” he countered with a smirk. He quickly caught up with Jim and took the hand he had been holding out for him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said in my oneshot, ["Freaks"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12206568), Jim is a psychopath and to me, and based on criminal psychopathology, is an un-savable, nonredeemable, terrible person at heart. His feelings are 100% real for Sherlock, but we will always have these moments among the funny, cute, and sexy ones. I always write psychotic Jim.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this. It took me all day.


	16. Demonstrate Your Value

“When you said you were taking me somewhere spooky, this was not what I was envisioning,” Sherlock stated flatly. 

Jim gave a childish pout. “Well, I’m _sorry_ I couldn’t live up to your expectations.” He straightened his sunglasses. “Consulting detective and professional douchebag.” 

Sherlock chuckled. “Your reputation precedes you. I expected to break into the Tower of London and step into a puddle of blood with a mass of bodies swinging from the ceiling.” 

Jim’s pout quickly turned into a wicked grin. “No, that is for the third date after the raunchy sex.” 

The men were standing in front of a large, stately building made out of polished white stone. Giant Corinthian ionic style pillars stood tall over the entrance. Standing at four stories high, it was fairly intimidating. 

“Never judge a book by its cover, Sherlock. Now let’s boogie!” He placed a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back and they stepped inside. 

The place was packed to the brim. The saying “three’s a crowed” was never more accurate. 

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. “I realize now that it was rather foolish to assume you would take me anywhere pedestrian. What are you doing?” He stepped back when Jim began to unbutton his coat. “We’re not having sex in a more exposed area.” 

With a snort, Jim batted his boyfriend away with a hand. “No, you don’t have the skill yet.” He looked up from his work. “You’re too loud.” He poked his tongue out and bit it with a naughty smirk. 

“Then what are you doing, you bloody git?” By now Jim had completely slipped off Sherlock’s coat and was working on his scarf. 

“I want to _look_ at you, daddy long legs.” He pulled Sherlock down into a kiss that was much too inappropriate for the public eye. 

Sherlock instantly pushed Jim away at the sound of a cleared throat. “Can I help you?” the desk clerk asked, incredibly dull looking and incredibly annoyed. Her half moon sunglasses hung from her neck by a beaded necklace. 

“Yes, look after this.” Jim hurled Sherlock’s coat and scarf over her head before he grabbed Sherlock’s hand and booked it. 

“You have to pay the ten dollar entry fee!” the woman yelled in anger, pulling the coat off of her. Her head whipped around, trying to see where the men went, only to find them long gone. 

“It’s much more crowded than I anticipated,” Jim said thoughtfully. I’m pleasantly surprised.” He turned to Sherlock, whose blue eyes were wide with wonder. “I mean, they _really_ increased the specimens.” 

Sherlock ran his fingers down the glass of an embalmed baby goat. He stepped back and slowly turned in a circle. “I don’t even know where to start,” he breathed. 

The room was filled with shelves that went all the way up to the ceiling. They were filled with human and non-human anatomical and pathological specimens. His breath hitched at the sight of a harlequin baby fetus. It sat in the fluid, its skin cracked like a dry desert that was pulled unnaturally tight. 

Sherlock was not a man of sentiment. At least, that was what he claimed. So when he reached behind him to grab his boyfriend, it was purely instinctual. Of course he wanted to show what he found amazing with the most important person in his life. 

“What can I do for you?” 

Sherlock brought Jim to his chest and wrapped his arms around him. “Do you see that right there?” Sherlock asked, pointing at the fetus and resting his chin on Jim’s head. 

“What, a freak fetus?” Jim leaned forward and began to giggle. “I certainly have more self-confidence now.” 

Sherlock huffed. “You stole the crown jewels, and sat on a thrown wearing a crown and holding a scepter. I think your self-confidence is the force that makes the world turn.” 

Jim stretched his neck back so that he could look Sherlock in the eye. “You are finally familiarizing yourself with astronomy! All of the scientists would say it correlates to the conditions of which it was made, but I swear on my black, cold, un- beating heart, that it revolves around me.” He stood up on his tip toes and gave Sherlock a peck on the lips. “Now tell me about the freak baby.” 

“The fetus suffered from a genetic disorder known as Harlequin-type ichthyosis. It causes the skin to be thick and cracked. As the baby grows it becomes tighter, which effects the eyes, mouth, and limbs.” Sherlock pointed to the fetus’ face. “Obviously you can see that movement is almost impossible. The chest is restricted, making it hard to breathe…they live a month at the most.” 

“ _Wow,_ ” Moriarty breathed in amazement. “Now that is one example of how nature is a sadistic, sick monster who plays with people like a kid would play with ants and a magnifying glass.” He tilted his head and shrugged. “It’s a lot like me.” He bent back. “Do you catch my drift, Sherlock? I’m being incredibly philosophical here.” 

Sherlock looked down and the corner of his mouth quirked, amused by the rhetoric inspired by a fetus. Only Jim would, and could, casually spew out an academic analysis of something in a jar. 

“Yes, Jim. I understood. I mastered the English language at a very young age.” 

Jim’s eyes narrowed in an agitated scowl, one Sherlock couldn’t take seriously because he was upside down. “You really need to change that ‘tude.” 

“Or what?” Sherlock taunted. “You do a back flip?” 

Jim immediately straightened himself, straightening his lapels with an aggressive pull. “I’m officially over it.” He waved his hand around the room. “I’ll see you outside or whatever,” he said, clearly irritated. 

“The harlequin baby is more mature than the way you are acting right now!” Sherlock called as Jim walked out the door. The man disappeared, Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. “Absolutely insufferable,” he muttered before he barged behind the clerk’s desk and grabbed his coat and scarf. He had accidently scared her so much that she had a heart attack, but whatever. He swooped out of the door with his coattails flying behind him. 

“I had half a mind to keep walking,” Moriarty drawled as Sherlock stepped out into the afternoon air. Jim was leaning against the building, absorbed in his phone. “It’s time to go home.” He sighed and put his phone away. “Nothing else to see on this fine day.” He slipped his sunglasses on, making him look a little less annoyed. 

“So are you going to throw a fit the entire way back?” 

“You betcha!” he said with enthusiasm and a grin. “I’ll still hold your hand. Not because I like you, of course. Just to make people jealous.” 

Sherlock smirked as he threaded fingers with the most dangerous man in the world. 

The walk was quiet. To say Jim was ignoring Sherlock was an understatement. He didn’t just refuse to talk to him, he refused to acknowledged his _existence._ Jim let Sherlock bump, trip, and run over anything and everyone without a thought. He completely disregarded what was in his path and focused on his own. Sherlock had tried to break free, but the man had an iron grip. 

“We should still burn them.” 

Sherlock swore. Jim had immediately stopped, but Sherlock’s momentum had made him stumble. 

“I second that.” 

Sherlock looked up to see a group of men, standing in front of a restaurant ahead of them, talking amongst themselves and giving Sherlock and Jim scathing looks. 

“Oh, no, no, no, no…” Jim said with a shake of the head and a small smile. Jim turned to Sherlock and put a gentle kiss on the back of his hand before making his way to the man with all of the grace of the world. Jesus did the man look absolutely _gorgeous_ standing next to those men. 

Jim put his hands in his pockets and gave them a dazzling smile. “It’s quite a pleasant day, isn’t it?” He looked up at the sky. “The one time in London we get to see the sun.” The sunshine reflected off his glasses. 

“Sir, if it were the 18th century, you and that other dandy would be cooking on a stick.” The man took a swig of beer. 

Jim only tilted his head. “What’s your name? Full, if you would be so kind.” 

Although he narrowed his eyes, the man said, “Marty Stillwater.” 

“Okay,” Jim said pensively as he began to fiddle with his phone. “I don’t understand why people have such a hard time with homosexuality,” Jim said coolly, not taking his eyes off his phone. “Attraction equates to what is between another’s legs?” Jim snorted. “Yeah, okay.” With a final tap, Jim put away his phone. 

About a minute later, Marty’s phone went off. “That’s odd,” he said, looking at the screen. “My wife never calls when she’s at work.” 

“Must be importaaaaaaaant,” Moriarty sang. 

“You shut you goddamn queer mouth.” 

Jim held his hands up. “I am so very sorry. My queer mouth tends to have a mind of its own.” 

“Honey, what are you talking about?” Marty had his phone pressed to his ear. “No, who’s Charlotte?” There was a pause. “I don’t even go into chat rooms! She was what?” By now, Marty was hyperventilating. “Do you really think I would sext a twelve year old?” A look of pure panic painted Marty’s face as he continued to listen. “That’s sick! Oh my god. I would never even so much as _touch_ a little girl, so much as have _sex_ with her! Cheryl?” It was quiet for a few moments. “Cheryl? _Cheryl_ , put down the gun!” The phone dropped from Marty’s hand. 

Jim was already on his way back to Sherlock when the man fell to the pavement and broke down, mourning the life Jim had just ruined with a few taps on his phone. 

Sherlock was looking at Jim in amazed confusion. “What did you just do?” 

Jim grinned and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Oh, that?” He chuckled. “For a moment I was a kid named Charlotte trying to text Marty but accidently getting ahold of his dear wife. She wanted to let him know that she was so glad that they met in a chat room and thank him for such a wonderful night.” Jim turned and watched as Marty screamed into the pavement, earning stares from every passerby. “Based on the final conversation and his current state of mind, I would say the wife killed herself.” He looked at Sherlock and curled his lip. With a shrug he said, “Oops.” 

Sherlock sighed. “You just second hand murdered someone.” 

Jim blew a raspberry and batted the idea away with his hand. “Don’t be a stick in the mud and make this such a big deal.” 

Sherlock looked at the sky. “This is going to be much more difficult than I thought.” He really hadn’t thought about how hard it would be with Jim. He knew what it would be like, but he didn’t _know_ what it would be like. He wanted to backhand himself for his moment of astronomical foolishness. But he had done it. He was involved now, and he liked him too much to turn back. Jim already had his hooks in him and it had only been a few hours. 

James Moriarty had never been more dangerous. 

“You have to see the true lesson here,” Jim cooed, slipping his arms around Sherlock’s waist. “Now that you’re with me,” he brought Sherlock down into a languid, chaste kiss. He brushed the hair from Sherlock’s eyes and sighed, “you’re untouchable.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plagiarized myself and had Jim wreck homophones again. ([The Sinner and the Saint](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12154116)) It's just so fun.


	17. Engage Physically

The flames burned hot in the fireplace, filling the study with flickering light. The room was warm and inviting, with leather chairs and bookshelves that went all the way to the ceiling. A large African blackwood desk was the defining piece of the room. Valued at $10,000 per kilogram, the person who sat behind it had to be very rich. 

“I know the adjective is typically used for women but you are just so goddam _pretty,_ Sherlock Holmes.” 

Sherlock was stunned. His heart had grown three sizes as he looked at Dream Moriarty…Jim. He was sitting in the chair opposite of him, resting his chin on his palm and looking at him with all of the love in the world. 

“Why-why are you back?" he stuttered. “I thought you were gone.” 

Jim leaned back and crossed one leg elegantly over the other. “I _was_ gone, but I wiggled back in because you need some more sense knocked into you.” He rolled his eyes. “You should just figure these things out on your own. I have things to do.” 

Sherlock smirked at the familiar words. “No you don’t,” he said. 

Jim put his hands up. “You caught me. I have all the time in the world, or at least until you figure out what’s going on. And based on last time, I might be here for a while.” 

Sherlock looked around. “I see you’ve upgraded.” 

Jim raised an eyebrow. “Um, _yeah_. I’m your boyfriend. Life’s been pretty cushy around here. Did you forget the schematics?” 

“My mistake. So, what riddles do you have for me this time?” 

Jim raised his eyebrows. “Oh, we’re past that. I just wanted to drop by and warn you.” 

Sherlock stiffened. “Of what?” he said suspiciously. 

“Real me.” Jim nodded as he thought. “Just, stay on your toes and snog me a lot. That’s about all I can tell you.” Jim waved. “Bye, baby. I’m sorry.” 

“Sorry for what?” 

Before Sherlock could press him further, he was sitting back in his living room, anxious and confused. 

“A day with a snake tends to wipe you out doesn’t it?” John snapped from his chair. He had been in a bad mood for a week, now. He was still annoyed that Sherlock had spent the day out with Jim. 

Sherlock shook his head, choosing to ignore his friend’s attitude. “No. I saw him again. Dream Jim. The visit was incredibly short.” 

John put his newspaper down, finally interested in what Sherlock had to say. “Did he tell you what he wanted?” 

“He said that he came back to warn me, and that I should stay on my toes around real Jim.” 

A cheeky smile played on John’s lips. “I like this Dream Jim.” He straightened out his newspaper. “Are you going to listen to him?” 

“If you mean by leaving him, then no. But I guess there is no harm in paying closer attention. He is James Moriarty.” 

“Yeah, and that’s why you shouldn’t be dating him.” 

“He hasn’t come here once since this whole thing started. You need to stop your whinging. The fact that he’s even respecting a rule is a miracle.” 

With a snort, John stood up. “Or because he finds it a waste of time. He’s not doing it for you. If he wanted to be here, he’d be here. Mark my words.” John stood up and made his way to his bedroom. When the door shut, Sherlock sighed and threw an arm over his eyes. The whole situation was absolutely exhausting. Dating Jim was like a fun chore. He loved being with the man, but keeping his sanity intact while trying to deal with Jim’s anti-personality disorder was incredibly trying, especially when he was aware of every illegal thing he was doing. Each one seemed to be more horrific than the one before. But he promised not to interfere, so Sherlock stayed out of that part of Jim’s life as much as he could. It was hard because the man bragged about it constantly. 

“God, I thought that thing would never stop yipping. Have you thought about sending it to the pound?” 

“How did you get in here?” Sherlock asked, not even bothering to open his eyes. John was absolutely right when he said Jim was the one who called the shots when it came to visits. But he would never tell John that. 

Sherlock felt his feet being lifted before the couch sunk under Jim’s weight. They were gingerly lowered onto Jim’s lap. 

“Lock pick. Basic bitch kind of thing.” 

Sherlock sighed. “Be more creative next time.” 

“Anything to impress you. So, what’s crakin’?” 

He certainly couldn’t tell Jim about his dream, so Sherlock decided to leave that out. “There have been unexplained poisons all around London that are increasing by a disturbing amount-” 

“His name is Bradley Fischer and he’s going around markets and injecting cyanide into bread. I thought it was stupid up until now because markets have cameras, but if you’re stumped, this guy is a genius.” 

Sherlock huffed. “This is why I never talk to you about work. You always spoil it.” 

“But I thought you wanted to _help_ people,” Moriarty said innocently, his voice going up an octave. 

Sherlock snorted. “Yes, but not when it’s boring.” 

Jim threw his head back and laughed. “And _I’m_ the bad guy.” Jim paused. “Now that I think about it, _I’m_ the one saving these people.” 

“World’s only consulting criminal and detective.” 

“I’m a double threat, baby. Now if only I could sing.” 

Sherlock smirked. “You certainly sound like you’re always singing.” 

“Is that a compliment, or a diss? I need to know if I should beat you up or not.” 

“Please. You weigh 130 pounds soaking wet. Now what do you want?” 

“To get laid,” Jim said simply. 

At this, Sherlock’s eyes shot open. He cleared his throat. “What?” 

Jim smiled, leaning his cheek on his fist. “Well, aren’t you just _adorable._ ” He pointed at Sherlock’s face and made a circle with his finger. “You’re as red as a cherry.” He made a popping sound with his mouth. When Sherlock didn’t understand the innuendo, he rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I forget you’re socially inept.” 

Sherlock sat up and retracted his legs, folding them to his chest. Although he was more than embarrassed and nervous, he was still a man of logic. “So you really do have sexual urges? That’s interesting.” He steepled his fingers. “As someone who can’t form bonds, you shouldn’t want to be that close to someone.” 

Jim rolled his eyes. “So do you. You’re just an idiot and repress them. If you actually used that big brain of yours, you’d know that sex is completely meaningless.” Jim tapped his head. “I don’t have to feel a thing up here.” 

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. “That does make sense,” he said slowly. “It is primal.” 

“Oh my _god!_ Can we stop with the academics and just _fuck_ already?” Jim hit his fist to the armrest in aggravation. “I’ve been wanting to get into those pants for _years_ and I’m done waiting.” 

Maybe Jim was right. Sherlock did need to let go and allow his emotions to run wild. With a deep breath, Sherlock emptied his mind for the first time in his life. He turned to the man next to him, clean shaven, sharp jaw, perfectly combed back hair, and eyes that were going to set the world on fire, but somehow still affectionate. This man was absolutely ethereal. He was gorgeous. And he was _his._

Jim must have seen the change in Sherlock because he smirked and immediately began to take off his blazer, roll up his sleeves, and look so goddamn sexy. He patted the spot next to him. “Come to daddy.” 

With much less trepidation, Sherlock slid over and cupped Jim’s face as he pressed a hard kiss against his feather soft lips. “You better be good,” he warned in his deep baritone. 

Jim groaned. “You could read me the alphabet and I’d get a hard on.” He leaned back on his hands. “Now get on top of me, but don’t get any funny ideas. I own you.” 

Without protest, Sherlock slid his long body on top of Jim’s. His fingers immediately weaved their way into Jim’s hair and their lips met in a sloppy kiss. Their tongues touched, exploring each other’s mouths in a passionate frenzy. 

As Sherlock pulled away for air, Jim bit his lip, causing him to wince. Jim clutched at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, viciously tugging at his hair while his other hand moved to the small of the man’s back. With a grunt, he pressed Sherlock against him and ground his hips. He smirked when Sherlock let out a small groan into his mouth. Jim opened his legs slightly, bringing one up so that Sherlock didn’t fall off the couch. 

Sherlock pulled away from Jim and kissed him behind the ear before he began to suck at the tender skin. He moved down Jim’s jawline and bit the flesh right next to his Adam’s apple, causing him to shudder. As Sherlock explored Jim’s neck, he was blindly taking off the detective’s jacket with amazing dexterity. 

“For a man who isn’t supposed to have sexual urges or like men you are doing absolutely well,” Jim purred, wrapping his leg around Sherlock’s waist. He began to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt. He ran the tip of his tongue up the length of Sherlock’s neck. “You taste good too.” He bit Sherlock’s throat. 

“Fuck!” Sherlock touched the spot Jim and chomped on and his fingers came back crimson. “You made me bleed!” 

“Oh, I am going to make you do a _lot_ of things today, baby.” With one fluid motion, Jim ripped Sherlock’s shirt off. Putting his hands on Sherlock’s chest, he slowly sat up, pushing Sherlock back. He whimpered, his fingers ghosting over his muscles. Jim leaned forward and pressed a languid kiss on Sherlock’s bicep. “If I wasn’t flaming before…” he explored Sherlock’s upper body, nipping, sucking, and kissing as he went. He was about to put a hand down Sherlock’s pants when the man wrenched him forward by his tie. Jim’s mouth twisted into a devilish grin and his eyes shined in amazement. “Well, look at you,” he whispered. He allowed Sherlock to undo the tie, too shocked and immensely turned on for sarcasm and resistance. 

“You’re not the only one,” Sherlock explained, focusing on the damn knot, “who likes the idea of ripping the other’s clothes off. What is the point of this bloody thing?” 

“The first ties were worn in 17th century France during the 30 Years War. King Louis XIII’s Croatian mercenaries wore them as part of their uniforms to hold their shirts together and because it made them look damn good. Louis loved it and made it part of his house dress code.” Jim looked smug. “You could say that I dress like a king.” 

Sherlock snorted. “You have already dressed like a king. It’s out of style now. You can’t repeat a fashion trend, Jim.” 

“The seventies and eighties are coming back,” Jim pointed out as Sherlock finally slipped his tie off. “All of the girls are wearing crop tops and high waisted shorts.” 

After a kiss on the lips, Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t like girls?” 

Jim gagged. “I don’t. I’ve been forced to do a lot of pretending in my life up until now, so I’ve been around them enough to know.” 

At this, Sherlock stopped. “Why?” 

Jim leaned forward and nibbled on Sherlock’s ear. “Why what?” 

Sherlock shivered. “Why do you have to pretend?” 

At this, Jim leaned back. Their eyes met. “Because too many people in business don’t want to work with a faggot,” he said, a little too simply. 

Sherlock winced at the word. He was never one for social graces, but he was well aware of that word’s history and potency. In truth, it made Sherlock sad for Jim. 

“Ignorant sheep,” Sherlock muttered. He hadn’t meant for Jim to hear it, but he had just caught it. 

“Aw,” Jim took Sherlock by the chin, “are you sticking up for little old me?” He placed a hand over his heart. “I’m touched.” He was going to say more, but Sherlock began to fiddle with his belt. “What are you doing down there, slugger?” Jim asked. 

“I am giving you a blowjob.” 

Jim’s face lit up. “Oh, you are a naughty one.” He reclined and stretched out on the couch, folding his arms under his head. “This is either going to be the greatest or worst moment of my life,” he drawled as he watched Sherlock slip his belt off. 

Sherlock cocked his head, unzipping Jim’s trousers. “What do you mean?” 

“There is a very specific schematic for blowjobs,” Jim explained, his eyes closed. “There are a lot of things to consider, but as not to overwhelm you, I just ask that you don’t bite me. Just having your mouth on my cock is good enough for me at this stage. Now chop chop.” 

Sherlock smirked as he finally slipped his hand into Jim’s trousers. The man’s eyes shot open and there was a sharp intake of breath. “To think the secret to taking you down is just touching you,” Sherlock drawled, giving him a smooth tug. “My life would have been so much easier two years ago.” 

“It would have been so much more _fun_ ,” Jim corrected, somehow able to keep his voice even. “Archenemies faceoff on a rooftop only to have rough, sloppy sex. What a turn of eve-” Jim was cut off when Sherlock took him into his mouth. With a deep sigh, he closed his eyes and relaxed. Weaving his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, he spoke. “Wrap you hand around the part you can’t get through those Cupid ’s bow lips and pump with your movement…there we go,” he said lazily. 

Jim was too proud to make noise. Screaming and moaning so that the neighbors could hear was absolutely pathetic. So when he did make sounds, they were miniscule and usually unnoticeable. His pleasure was expressed through his face, and he was currently licking and biting at his lips. 

“Twist your hand and turn your head to the side as you go down in sync with you hand.” Jim let out a harsh breath and threw an arm over his eyes. “Are you sure you never sucked cock before?” he breathed. When Sherlock laughed, Jim swore. “Fuck!” 

“I _knew_ you would sneak in – OH MY GOD!” 

Jim batted John away hurriedly. “Piss off. Your bestie is sucking me off, and that’s only step one.” He opened one eye and smirked. 

“Get out, John,” Sherlock ordered as he sat up, his lips flushed. 

John Watson hurled himself out of the flat as if there had been a fire. “I will never be able to look at that couch again,” he muttered.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if I'm able to correctly fit in what I need to, this will have four more chapters after this, which some of you might know if you caught on to my scheme. I'll tell you in the end.


	18. Nurturing Dependence

Jim never went anywhere without looking absolutely perfect. Every crease needed to be ironed and every hair had to be in place. Any shaving cuts were an embarrassment and he would rather throw himself off a building then have any blemishes. So to the untrained eye, it would be absolutely shocking to see the man sitting behind his desk with his dress shirt wrinkled to hell, tie unknotted, and hair that needed to be brushed. His neck was covered in bruises and he didn’t smell like any of his expensive colognes. 

He smelled like sex and the bruises that littered his neck were love bites from Sherlock Holmes. They were his new favorite accessory. It pained him to know that he would have to cover them up. He wanted to wear them as a badge of honor. Jim wanted bragging rights. He wanted to hang Sherlock’s V card around his neck as a lanyard. He also wanted to wear his _Gay_ V Card. Jim sighed, he had never been happier. So, it came as no surprise that he was whistling Superstition as he was typing away on his desktop. 

“Man dresses his victims up as his mother and kills them in her bathtub.” Jim snorted. “Basic mommy issues, blah, blah, blah.” He reached for his phone and brought it to his ear. As it rang, he stared at the monitor, admiring his bruises. He traced one with his finger and smirked. 

“Hello?” 

“Is this the gorgeous Isabelle, the most crooked P.I. of all of London, and who knows absolutely everything?” He asked when the line was picked up. Isabelle Sanders was the only woman that didn’t make Jim want to kill himself and knew every nook and cranny of the city. He had a feeling that she knew he was gay, but she was smart enough not to share her assumptions. Jim respected her immensely for that. 

“Is this James Moriarty, the world’s only consulting criminal and most dangerous man in the world?” she purred, making Jim snicker. She always played the way he wanted her to. 

Jim smirked, swinging back and forth in his chair. “As I live and breathe, sweetheart.” 

“The fuck you’ve been? I haven’t heard from you in months!” 

“Ohhhh,” Jim sang, “I’ve been busy, doing a little this and that.” 

“You sound chipper. Did you get laid?” 

Jim couldn’t help but smile. “Big time. BIG.TIME.” 

“Well, I’m proud of you.” 

“Guess who.” 

“Prince Harry,” Isabelle said immediately. “I swear, you wouldn’t shut up about that ginger for weeks.” 

Jim giggled. “Try agaaaaaaaain!” 

The line was quiet for a moment before Isabelle gasped. “Shut the fuck up.” 

“Oh, yes. Now, that is why I am calling you.” 

“Because you bedded Sherlock Holmes?” 

“Do you know that bathtub serial killer? The prick who’s dressing the victims as his mum or something ridiculous?” 

Isabelle snorted. “Unfortunately.” 

“I need you to kill him. It will only take a minute. We’re in the same field.” 

“Isn’t that something Holmes would take? It’s kind of a dick move to take something from your boyfriend.” 

A lazy smile spread across Jim’s face. “Precisely.” 

~*~

Sherlock Holmes stared out his living room window, bored out of his mind and decaying from the inside. He hadn’t had a case in two weeks. Not only were there no interesting crimes in London, there weren’t _any at all._ Not a single kitten got stuck in a tree and no candy was taken from any babies. Sherlock was going stir-crazy, pacing the flat and fidgeting whenever he sat down. He had even started to watch Dateline, just to solve the crimes before the show ended. It took him two minutes, so that ended with a shoe thrown into the screen. 

The only thing that was keeping Sherlock alive was the most interesting and stimulating thing in the world, James Moriarty. If he didn’t need his other side of the coin to handle the stasis of life before, his relationship with Jim had become dangerously co-dependent. There actually were crimes in London. Big crimes, juicy, intricate, beautiful crimes, but he couldn’t touch them because they were Jim’s. So when both of them had time, the world’s only consulting detective spent his time with the consulting criminal. 

After twenty more minutes of staring out the window, Sherlock brushed his pride aside and slipped his phone out of his pocket. 

John moseyed in from the kitchen, completely relaxed until he saw Sherlock’s cellphone. “Drop that,” he ordered, narrowing his eyes. 

Sherlock met his aggressive gaze with one of his own. “I will call my boyfriend whenever I want, see him whenever I want, and talk to him whenever I want. It’s time to grow up and get over this relationship and at least _pretend_ it doesn’t bother you.” 

John threw his hands up. “Sherlock, even if it wasn’t Moriarty, this behavior is still fucking unhealthy! You can’t even function without seeing him ever two seconds! You’re _completely_ dependent on him!” 

“No, it’s called being in love and you’re little brain can’t wrap your head around it because you’ve never felt it!” The flat went dead quiet for two reasons. Sherlock looked at his Shoes. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “That was low class.” 

John didn’t hear him. “You _love_ him?” He whispered in horror, falling into his chair. 

Sherlock scratched the back of his neck, still incredibly amazed by the ground. “Apparently so.” Before the conversation could get any more excruciation, Sherlock’s phone rang. Without even looking at the caller, Sherlock wrenched it to his ear. “ _What?_ ” he snapped. 

“Jesus H. Christ, baby. What side of the bed did you wake up on this morning?” 

Sherlock’s entire body relaxed. “Sorry. I was just having a conversation that was less to be desired.” His eyes briefly flicked to John, who was looking at him with irritation. No longer willing to be under his friend’s scrutiny, Sherlock went to his room. “How are you?” 

“I am just _peachy._ I’m kinda bummin’ that my bruises have faded. We really need a second sesh.” 

A pink hue spread across Sherlock’s cheeks. “Maybe after another recovery week.” 

“With that attitude it will never happen again and we don’t want that. It seemed like you had fun.” 

He did. He had a _lot_ of fun. “So why are you calling?” 

Jim snorted. “Well, I was going to ask you out for lunch but you are sounding like a right prick right now.” 

Sherlock sighed. “It’s John. He’s being…difficult.” 

“Oh, you poor thing. You’ll have to tell me all about it.” 

"Will do." 

“Okay. Hop on down the stairs. I’m already here, baby,” Jim cooed. 

"Thank god." 

“I’ll be there in a minute.” Sherlock hung up and went back to the living room. Without an explanation, he shrugged on his coat and scarf and slipped out the door. As soon as his feet touched the pavement, a man opened the door of a sleek black car. Sherlock didn’t think he would ever get used to being treated as someone who was obscenely wealthy. He took a deep breath as he slid into the car. It smelled like _him._

“There are my favorite pair of legs!” Jim exclaimed, looking stunning in a black pinstripe suit. He took Sherlock by the thigh and pulled him to his side. “I’m going to take you out and make you forget about that nasty mutt.” He gave the spot just behind Sherlock’s ear a quick swipe of the tongue and nip before resting his head on his shoulder. “How are you?” he snuggled closer, his hand sitting screamingly close to Sherlock’s crotch. 

Sherlock sighed, looking down at Jim’s creeping hand. “Miserable. London has become a safe, family friendly city.” He pressed his forehead against the window. “It’s not the kind of London I thrive in. The only good thing that is keeping me from completely drowning is you.” He huffed in frustration. 

“Oh,” Jim tutted, cupping Sherlock’s face with both of his hands and turning his face to him, “well as long as your happiness is in my perfectly manicured hands, I’ll do everything in my power to make you a happy boy.” He leaned forward and brought Sherlock into a sweet kiss, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “I hope you’re hungry. I’m taking to you to one of my favorite places to chow,” he said against Sherlock’s lips. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Is it expensive and pompous?” 

Jim bit his lip and smirked. “A little bit.” He began to hum as he explored Sherlock’s neck. “Royalty never sits on the same level as the court.” The hand that was on Sherlock’s thigh slithered between his legs and gave it a teasing squeeze. Being a man of pride like Jim, his breath hitched only slightly. 

“What are you doing, you idiot?” Sherlock snapped, smacking Jim’s hand away. 

Jim grit his teeth and balled one of his hands into a fist in frustration. He closed his eyes. “When your boyfriend goes to grab your prick, he wants to get frisky.” 

Sherlock shook his head and pushed him away. “Surprisingly, there are people who don’t want to have sex every minute.” He crossed one long leg over the other. 

Jim scowled and dismissed Sherlock with a wave of his hand. He slid to the other side of the car. “Well, are you boring today?” 

“If boring is what you call it, than yes. I’m an absolute snooze fest.” 

Jim crossed his arms. “Aw, you really are having a bad day aren’t you? I really have my work cut out for me.” 

Before Sherlock could answer, the car stopped and his door was opened by the chauffer. He got out of the car and stepped out into the gloomy day. The weather reflected his mood. 

“Alright, prepare your palette,” Jim said as he linked arms with Sherlock, “because your taste buds are about to go one a wild ride.” 

The men strode into to luxurious Berkeley Hotel, a place that Sherlock immediately realized he would never be able to afford unless he sold his organs. 

“Here we areee!” Jim chimed as they rounded a corner. 

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up. Although it was in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, there was a line that went all the way down the hall. 

“I’m not waiting this long just for gold shavings on my ice cream,” Sherlock said dryly. He tried to turn around, but Jim yanked him back into place. 

“Royalty doesn’t sit on the same level as the court and they don’t wait in line.” He shot Sherlock an impish grin as he dragged the detective down the hallway. 

“How are you so bloody strong?” Sherlock asked, stumbling into place. “You’re about two inches from the floor.” 

“5’8 and feeling great!” They made it to the front of the door to the host stand. 

“Mr. Moriarty!” The host exclaimed. “We don’t usually see you on Mondays.” 

“Well, there’s a first time for everything.” 

Andrew turned to Sherlock. “Business associate?” 

Jim cuddled up to Sherlock. “Beloved boyfriend who I spoil rotten.” He looked up at Sherlock and gave him a dazzling smile. “Anyway, I’m taking him out for some real food and I’m famished.” 

At this, Andrew bit his lip. “Well, we have a problem.” 

Jim’s eyebrows shot up, although his demeanor remained pleasant. “I’m sorry?” Sherlock did not like where this was going. 

“Well, since you never come on Mondays, we gave away your table.” 

Jim stepped back. “Huh.” He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “Well, as long as you make them move, there won’t be a problem.” He placed a hand on his chest. “I’m a very understanding man. 

Sherlock pulled Jim’s arm and leaned down. “Don’t do anything rash. There are hundreds of people that will see you if you throw a tantrum.” 

Jim put his finger on Sherlock’s lips. “Sh, baby. The adults are talking.” 

“I don’t need you patronizing me!” Sherlock snapped. 

Jim pulled Sherlock down and gave him a quick peck on the lips, silencing his seething boyfriend. “Now,” Jim said, turning back to the host, “kick them out or I’ll make a really, really big scene.” 

Andrew sighed and looked at his feet. “Okay. Right this way.” He motioned them to follow with a flick of his wrist. 

The dining room was bursting at the seams. Every table was occupied and every chair was being used. 

“There they are.” 

Andrew pointed to a half moon booth at one of the huge windows. A family of four sat, a mother and a father with two little girls. By the looks of it, they were just served their food. With a small groan, Andrew walked over. 

“Today is not their day,” Jim snickered at the family was forced to get out of the booth, looking crestfallen and confused. 

“I would have waited,” Sherlock said as they slid into the booth. 

Jim snatched a pickled grape off of one of the plates before it was taken away. “Yes. But I wouldn’t have.” 

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the table and the corner of his mouth quirked. “Alright. I wouldn’t have waited either.” 

Jim slid down the bench so that he was next to Sherlock and took his hand. “Want to make this the worst day of our server’s life? I practically own this place.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Absolutely.” 

When a server walked by, Jim snapped his fingers. 

“Yes, sir?” 

Jim leaned back and smiled innocently. “I don’t like this tablecloth.” 

Sherlock snorted into his napkin. His day was looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter is %100 dedicated to **sharptoothed** because she figured out what my sneaky ass is up to and made me laugh for 10 minutes. 
> 
> One would say that she is...a golden god or a legend


	19. Neglect Emotionally

“Sherlock! Pay attention, mate!” Sherlock jumped at the sound of Greg Lestrade’s voice. He blinked himself awake and looked down. He was standing in the middle of a crimson pool of blood. He lifted his foot up and saw that the sole was drenched. 

He jumped back. “Right,” he said, regaining focus. He pointed to the door. “She came in through the doorway, the scuffmarks indicate that she was running from someone.” He strode over across the room. “She fell here and tried to steady herself by grabbing the wall.” Sherlock touched the scratch marks on the wallpaper. He knelt down next to the body and held up the girl’s hand. “There’s matching paper under her nails, showing that I’m obviously right…” Sherlock drawled on, hardly paying attention because someone wasn’t paying attention to him. 

It had been weeks since he had a proper conversation with Jim. He had been dodging every phone call, standing him up on every date, and on the rare times that Sherlock did see him, he barely spared the detective a second glance. It was driving him absolutely mad. 

Sherlock was irritated by such juvenile behavior, but he was mostly hurt because he was head over heels in love with the man. Most of all he felt desperate and in need. He never wanted Jim as much as he did the past few weeks and he was going absolutely mad. 

“Sherlock, your phone is ringing,” Greg said. 

Hope course through Sherlock’s veins and his heart practically exploded when he saw who was calling. 

“Sherlock!” Greg called as Sherlock left the room, but he was already long gone. 

“You’re lucky I even picked up this call,” Sherlock said icily. 

Sherlock couldn’t see, but Jim smirked. Of courses Sherlock would pick up. He would _always_ pick up. Puppets always listened to the puppeteer. 

“I need a favor, baby.” 

Sherlock grit his teeth. “You ignore me for weeks on end and when you do call me, it’s because you need something from me?” 

“Huh. Has it really been weeks?” 

Sherlock’s grip on his phone became obscenely tight. “Over a month, you self-centered twat.” God, was it good to hear his voice. 

Jim chuckled. “I’ve been busy. Surely you understand I have a lot of things on my gold inlay plate.” 

Sherlock hated it when Jim could make him smile even while he was furious. “You’re even pretentious about your cutlery.” 

“What, do you want me to eat off porcelain?” 

“God forbid.” Sherlock shivered when Jim chuckled. Damn, it had been so long since he had heard his voice. Absence didn’t just make the heart grow fonder, it made it obsessed and incredibly randy. “So what do you need?” 

“You,” Jim said seductively. Sherlock swallowed thickly. “I’m at 221B Baker Street, ready and willing.” 

Sherlock turned and looked at the crime scene. “I’m working.” 

“And James Moriarty desperately needs Sherlock Holmes, so much so that he just might die if you don’t hurry uuuuu- _ **p**!_ ” he popped the ‘p.’ 

Sherlock didn’t need to hear any more. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He hung up the phone without another word. “I’m leaving, Gerald,” he called. 

Greg stood up. “What do you mean you’re leaving?” he asked, clearly agitated. 

Sherlock looked over his shoulder, already climbing down the stairs. He smirked. “I have a boyfriend to ravish.” When Greg blushed, Sherlock chuckled and continued down the stairs. “Prude,” Sherlock muttered. 

~*~

“I appreciate the haste,” Sherlock said pleasantly as he stepped out of the cab. 

“Well, you promised to frame me for the murder of my wife, so I had no choice,” the cabbie grumbled. 

Sherlock shoved a couple of quid through the window. “Tell your wife that she’s a lucky woman.” With a lazy grin, Sherlock clomped up the stairs of 221b as fast as he could, jabbing his keys into the keyhole. “You certainly have a lot of explaining to…” his sentence trailed off, “do.” 

Jim was sitting at Sherlock’s desk with his laptop open, clearly in the middle of work. He must have gotten little done, because John was pressing a gun to his temple. Jim was holding his hands up, looking extremely bored and incredibly annoyed. 

“I need you to tell him to sit,” he said casually, his lips forming into a taunting smirk as he looked at John through the corner of his eye. 

Only Jim would try to provoke a man with a gun to his head. 

“You needed me to tell John to piss off?” 

Jim raised his eyebrows. “Do you want me to get shot? I thought you loved me.” The silence in the room was heavy. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot and looked down. Jim pouted. “Don’t be embarrassed. Do you really think you could hide anything from me?” 

Sherlock shrugged his coat off and unraveled his scarf. “Not particularly, no,” he mumbled, mussing his hair in anxiety. 

“Well, big bad James Moriarty loves you too. So stop with the moping and help me.” 

The air left Sherlock’s lungs and his heart bloomed. Unfortunately, John was not impressed. 

“Shut up!” John spat, jabbing the gun against Jim’s temple harder, making the man’s head bob. “Stop saying things you don’t mean and play with his feelings!” 

The playfulness in Jim’s face disappeared. “And who are you to say I’m playing, John Watson?” 

“I swear,” John said through gritted teeth, “you better stop toying with his emotions or-” 

Jim’s eyes sparkled and he chuckled softly. Sherlock stiffened. John had played with fire, and now manic James Moriarty had surfaced. 

“Or you’ll what?” Jim asked quietly with a smirk. He turned and faced the gun, pressing his forehead against the muzzle. He stared at John, his eyes disturbingly wide. “You’ll shoot me?” 

“Oh, I would over and over again and I would never sleep any better.” John pressed the muzzle harder against Jim’s head. 

Jim licked his lips and began to giggle. 

“John, stop,” Sherlock begged, taking a step forward. By now he wasn’t sure which man was in danger. 

Jim held up a hand. “Hush, baby. I’ve never been safer in my life. John’s just going to play Dirty Harry for a bit and then we’ll go upstairs and never get out of bed.” 

“Moriarty, I _will_ shoot you if one more smart word comes out of that ruddy mouth.” 

Jim stared up at John, a look of worship on his face. “Do it,” he whispered. 

John was taken aback and shifted. “What?” 

Jim’s smile grew and his eyes widened. “Shoot me. Blow my brains out, right in front of Sherlock.” 

John licked his lips as his grip on the gun tightened. “I’ll do it!” 

“ _Stop it_ you idiot!” Sherlock shouted. 

Jim bit his lip. “Prove it. Show Sherlock what a big strong man you are.” 

“It’s not about Sherlock. It’s about _you!_ ” 

Jim slowly began to get up and Sherlock was absolutely beside himself. He felt the salty tears of panic form in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. 

“No it’s not,” Jim said simply, grinning like a mad man. “I’ll be dead in an instant. Your best friend will be the one thrown into grief. I’ll just go take a forever nap.” He rolled his eyes. “Which is everyone’s dream to be honest. Can you _imagine_ never having to hit the snooze button again? So,” he leaned into the gun, “shoot me John Watson. I won’t even fight.” 

John snarled. “God damn you, you slimy piece of shite.” The gun dropped to his side. 

“You really are a good friend.” Jim straightened his lapels with an aggressive tug and sat down. He rubbed the mark the muzzle left on his forehead. "This better come off in a few minutes of I’ll be pissed.” He drummed on the desk with his fingers and turned to Sherlock, who was still frozen in shock. “Well, thanks for your help. I’m actually super busy at the moment. So…” he shrugged and winced, “catch ya later?” Instead of waiting for an answer, Jim popped his headphones in and began to type away. 

Sherlock stared at Jim longingly. The man was so close, yet so far away. 

Feeling used and neglected, Sherlock quietly padded to his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short but I love it. I hope you enjoyed it and thank you for all of the comments and kudos! Only two chapters to go


	20. Inspire Hope

Jim watched as Sherlock dragged himself to bed. He laughed under his breath and his eyes returned to the screen. 

“I saw that, you prick!” John jumped up from his chair and jabbed his finger at Jim. 

Blowing a raspberry, Jim rested his chin in his palm and raised an amused eyebrow. He shot John a crooked grin. “Saw what, Rin Tin Tin?” He was delighted to see John grind his jaw in fury. 

“You think it’s funny that Sherlock’s hurting. You are the same sick bastard who put a bomb vest on me and vowed to burn the heart out of him!” John flung himself back in his chair. 

Jim fluttered his eyelashes innocently. “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.” He leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin. “And that Moriarty has gone out of style.” He licked his lips. “At least when it concerns Sherlock. Otherwise I’m still a bit naughty.” He tilted his head. “Have you ever heard of ‘gay for pay’?” 

“Shut up!” John smacked his chair’s armrest. 

“Christ, I’m _kidding!_ ” Jim snorted and eyed John up and down. “You wish. Not my type.” 

“Well, thank god for that.” John narrowed his eyes and his voice became even. “If you’re going to stick around you can at least stop it with the mind games. If an ounce of you cares about Sherlock,” he held out his thumb and pointer finger, making a small space, “you’d step back.” 

Jim laced his fingers together and rested his chin on his fist. An amused smirk played on his lips. “Well, aren’t _you_ a good friend? Not to mention _super_ intimidating!” He furrowed his brow and stuck his lips out. “You’d better step back!” he mocked in a deep baritone that was so out of character it would have been funny in any other situation. 

But that was James Moriarty 

Jim leaned forward. “Okay, real talk. They say it’s important that the best friend likes the person their friend is dating -” 

“That is never going to happen.” 

“Forgiveness isn’t for me, John. It’s for you. The hate will just eat you up for the rest of your life.” Jim looked at John innocently. 

“That’s shite and you and I both know it.” 

Jim snorted. “Obviously. Bitterness, anger and revenge.” He smacked the table top. “Boom! Problem solved.” He drummed his fingers. “Now, what can I do that will make you shut the hell up?” 

John tilted his head. “Hm, I don’t know. Maybe piss off?” 

Jim sighed and stood up. As graceful as a gazelle, Jim crossed the room and lowered himself into Sherlock’s chair, crossing one leg over the other in one smooth movement. 

“I think we need to have a chat.” 

“And why in _the hell_ would I do that?” 

Jim inspected his nails for dirt. “Well,” he began, putting his hand back on the armrest, “I’m very unhappy to say that we’re going to have to see a lot of each other. Now believe me, I will do everything in my power to put as much distance between myself and those frumpy jumpers.” Jim eyed John’s sweater. “They’re offensive.” 

John looked down. “Well, if I knew this was what would keep you away, I’d line the whole flat with them.” 

“Unfortunately, my obsession with your friend’s dress clothes outweighs my disgust by tenfold.” 

John narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know why, but that idiot loves you. The only way this can be amicable, and when I say amicable, I mean that I won’t punch you in the face as soon as I see you, is if you don’t manipulate him. No mind games. No toying with his emotions. You’re obviously not going to stop being a seedy dickhead outside of the flat, but don’t involve him.” 

“Or you,” Jim said, incredibly amused. 

“In extension me, yes.” 

Jim cocked his head. “You’ve heard the song Superstition by Stevie Wonder, I assume?” 

“Oh, god. You have another theme song?” John shifted in his chair. “At least it’s a good song.” 

Jim ignored John’s blasphemy and continued with a small smile. “’When you believe in things you don’t understand, then you suffer. Superstition ain’t the way.’” 

“I don’t see how me getting the willies every time a black cat walks across my path has to do with you being a right bastard.” 

Jim shook his head. “That’s because your little brain does not understand metaphors and rhetoric. It is impossible for you to relate something to this situation because of all that empty space in your skull. You can’t even _comprehend_ our relationship and you never will because you will never understand _us._ ” Jim raised his eyebrows. “You see something as wrong simply because you’re an idiot. You’re making yourself miserable.” 

John shook his head and grit his teeth. “No, I know when someone is being mistreated. Now agree to the terms or I will be the most annoying idiot on the planet who really likes the police.” 

Jim let out a comically big sigh. “John Watson, you drive a hard bargain, asking me to be a good person and all.” He shot the man a crooked grin. “I so solemnly swear that I will be a good boy. Shake on it?” He stuck his hand out. 

John crossed his arms. “A handshake doesn’t mean anything to you.” 

Jim’s grin widened. “You got that right, sister.” He got up and ruffled John’s hair before he returned to Sherlock’s desk. 

Unable to stay another minute in the room with the man, John made his way to his room, wondering if Jim had actually agreed to his terms or not. 

When John disappeared, Jim rolled his eyes. “Idiot,” he muttered. He turned back to his computer screen. Jim hadn’t been lying to Sherlock when he said he was busy. He had been in the middle of a conference call with two dons of the Ukraine’s biggest mobs. Jim was in bed with both of them, and he was taking on serious damage because of the rivalry. His golden tongue had just started to pull Semion Mogilevich to his senses when the idiot doctor pulled a gun on him. 

“Hello?” Jim asked in Ukrainian, praying that the man was still feeling changeable. After an hour of negotiation, it turned out he wasn’t. Jim smashed his laptop. “Fuck!” He could count the number of times he wasn’t able to manipulate someone on one hand. How could he go on if he was in such a wretched mood? 

He banged his head against the table in frustration and closed his eyes. The game was almost over and no one was going to call out check mate but him. 

He hoped John brought a broom to clean up the pieces he would leave behind. 

~*~

Sherlock drudged down the stairs sleepy and depressed. Greg Lestrade had rang him at least a hundred times that morning, but he ignored it. He really wasn’t interested in solving crimes today. Today was going to be dedicated to self-pity and moping about. 

Well, at least John made tea and…coffee? Neither he nor John drank coffee. He only knew one person who did… 

“Sleep well, curly-q?” Jim asked, his legs draped over the armrest of Sherlock’s chair. He reached down and grabbed a golden crunch cookie. “Biscuit?” 

Sherlock shook his head, trying to wake himself up. “You look disturbingly domestic,” he observed. 

“Try disturbingly pissed off and sleepy. Rover needs to be housetrained.” 

“Oh god,” Sherlock groaned as he stepped into the kitchen. “What on earth happened?” He made himself a cup of tea and searched for a loaf of bread. He didn’t have an appetite, but he needed to eat. Toast would have to do. 

“Oh, it’s no biggie. We just had a late night heart to heart. I think we really bonded.” Jim stretched his neck backwards so he could meet Sherlock’s eye. “I think we came to an understanding.” 

“Oh?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he spread jam on his toast. “I feel like it involved insulting banter and ended in threats.” He took a bite of his toast. “I’d ask you if I was right, but I know I am.” 

“Swallow before you talk, you Neanderthal,” Jim ordered. “Only low class people chew with their mouths open.” He popped another cookie in his mouth. 

Sherlock took his seat in John’s chair. “Yes, and stuffing your face with cookies in the morning has been a long tradition of blue blood society.” He laughed as he took another bite of his toast. “So shut up.” 

The cookie Jim was about to take a chomp out of hovered above his mouth. He gave Sherlock a smile that was only reserved for him. “Touché, Holmes.” 

“So,” Sherlock drawled, touching his fingers into a steeple, “what the devil do you want?” 

Jim’s mouth dropped and he let out a loud, offended yelp. He threw a hand over his heart. “Can a man not just want to hang with his boyfriend with absolutely no ulterior motive or suspicion?” 

Sherlock took a sip of tea. “Not when it’s James Moriarty. Absolutely not.” 

Jim bit his lip and snickered. “You got me again.” He threw his hands up. “I _genuinely_ just came over to say hi. I realized that I’ve been being a prick lately and I thought the least I could do was spend the whole day with you.” 

Sherlock spit out his tea. Luckily, he was fast enough to grab a napkin. Coughing, he asked, “You are going to be with me the _whole_ day? Sun up to sun down?” 

“That’s usually what a day looks like,” Jim said, looking nothing short of amused. 

It took a minute for Sherlock to recover from his coughing fit. When his hacking finally subsided, he took a deep breath. “Do you have any macabre plans?” 

“Nope!” Jim shrugged. “Just chillin.’” 

“This is so bizarre,” Sherlock whispered, running a hand down his face. “Why are you looking at me like that? Are you sick?” This had to be a crazy dream because Jim’s face could not physically look so soft. 

“Sherlock Holmes.” 

Sherlock answered with a few opened, goldfish mouth gapes. He coughed. “Yes?” he tried, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes?” 

His struggle earned a chuckle from Jim and a small smile. “John picked a fight with me last night because he has this shoddy theory that I was simply pulling puppet strings when I told you that I loved you.” 

Being a man of science, Sherlock Holmes would tell you that it was impossible for one’s heart to jump out his or her throat. He would even go so far as to merciless ridicule you until you lost all self-esteem. However, he was ready to take it all back because his heart leapt out of his mouth at Jim’s words. 

“So, what I’m trying to say is,” Jim paused as he thought, “is that this cold, black heart has started to beat. Ya feel?” 

The breath had been taken from Sherlock’s lungs. There were so many things going through his mind at once. James Moriarty was saying that he formed a strong social bond. How could a psychopath do that? Jim loved him. Was he trying to pull the wool over his eyes? Jim loved him. This was surely a misidentification of feelings. Jim _loved him._

The turmoil must have been clear on his face, because Jim held up a hand. “I understand that this is an absolute mental mind fuck and I wouldn’t believe me either.” He pulled his feet from the armrest and sat. Leaning his elbows on his knees, Jim leaned forward, a thoughtful look on his face. “The only thing that I can offer you that will show you that I mean this in good faith is the fact that your pet is still breathing even though he put a gun to my head.” He shrugged. “I really can’t think of anything else I, James Moriarty, can do to prove myself 

Sherlock gracefully crossed one leg over the other as he thought. “The most important thing to you is self-preservation, as is with ever psychopath.” His fingertips touched as he stared at the ground. “Your track record shows that you use any means necessary to accomplish this, including murder. You’d certainly have anyone who made an attempt on your life mercilessly punished and/or killed.” Sherlock tilted his head. “John is far from your favorite person and I’m quite aware that you always have protection. You could have easily gotten out of that situation without my help.” His eyes flicked up. His gaze locked with Jim’s as he finished his deduction. “The only reason John doesn’t have a bullet in the head or scattered in a million pieces is because you knew it would hurt me. You showed empathy, something absolutely unheard of for you and people like you. But _especially_ you.” 

Jim leaned back and smiled lazily. “So what’s the verdict, sweetheart?” He quickly held up a finger. “And don’t forget I made you tea.” 

Sherlock chuckled. “There is certainly a strong sense of affection that you have never felt before.” 

“Oh, you’re never going to accept it, are you?” 

“You ‘James Moriarty love’ me, which is quite a feat. I’m certainly flattered.” 

Jim shook his head with a lopsided grin. “Okay, Sherlock. I’ll settle.” He pat the front of the chair. “Now come here so I can ‘James Moriarty love’ you.” 

Once Sherlock sat on the floor between Jim’s legs, he rested his back against the chair. “Okay, what do you want?” 

Jim grabbed the remote. “I’m going to show you some mandatory gay cinema.” 

“I’m not watching porn,” Sherlock said flatly as his boyfriend began to play with his hair. 

Jim gagged in disgust. “Ew, no! We’re going to do the time warp.” 

Sherlock curled his lip. “What the hell is the time warp?” 

He was met with a giggle. “It starts with a jump to to left.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is the last one! It's bittersweet because I've never finished a fic, but I've enjoyed writing this _so_ much.
> 
> I wasn't sure how this was going to end, but it was obviously lighthearted. However, I was listening to a certain soundtrack while I was writing and was struck by inspiration. You and I both know that movie would be his jam.


	21. Separate Entirely

The day after Jim’s visit, he disappeared. At first Sherlock thought he was trying to goad him like he had previously, so he was more irritated than concerned. But as the weeks passed, panic had taken ahold of him. 

There were no leads he could take or anyone he could ask for clues. He knew there would be no witnesses for a disappearance and no one was going to help him on his manhunt. Sherlock Holmes was the greatest detective in the world, but when James Moriarty didn’t want to be found, the man was a ghost. 

John couldn’t be happier. The spider seemed to have consumed his web and spun it elsewhere, and he would happily toast to that. The only problem was that Sherlock had become a shell of his former self. The man had become withdrawn and disturbingly quiet. At first John was over the moon when the flat was no longer filled with snarky retorts and a sharp tongue. But it quickly wore off. Things became boring and he realized Sherlock’s witticism and bullying made him who he was, and John missed it. Only now did he realize he thought Sherlock’s behavior to be quite funny. 

Like every day since Jim left, Sherlock stared wistfully out the window, his hands clasped behind his back and back straight. 

“London really is a dreadful city.” 

John nearly fell out of his chair. Those were the first words Sherlock said in two days. “Y-yeah,” he panted, trying to pull himself together, “I guess so.” He had gotten into this habit of agreeing with everything Sherlock said on the rare occasions that he did talk. The last thing he wanted to do was pick a fight and cause Sherlock to withdraw even further. “With all of its pollution and…pollution,” John finished lamely. 

Sherlock snorted. “Every city has pollution. I just saw a couple kissing. Disgusting.” 

“People are allowed to be happy, Sherlock.” 

“They can be happy, just don’t do it in front of me.” 

John knew that he wasn’t annoyed about the grossness at the public display of affection – he was jealous. With a set jaw and a clenched fist, John went to his room and slammed the door. He sat on his bed and pulled out his phone. 

He had put Jim’s number in his contacts in case Sherlock went missing. Unfortunately if anyone knew where the detective was, it was that slime ball. Ever since he entered the number, he felt dirty every time he touched the phone. With a groan and a wince, he tapped on the bastard’s name. To John’s fury, he picked up after a single ring. 

“Shut _up_ ,” Jim said in excitement. “Here I am, sitting at my desk, going over these boring spreadsheets and _John Watson_ calls me on my personal cell phone. Shut…up.” John could could hear the man’s grin. 

“How about you shut the fuck up and tell me where you’ve been the last two months?” He heard a drumming of fingers. 

“I would think you would be frolicking in a field of daisies if I disappeared.” 

“Believe me, I would, but Sherlock is an absolute wreck because your nasty self hasn’t shown your face here.” 

Jim purred, making John cringe. “Saucy, John. It truly breaks my heart to hear that he is hurting.” 

“You don’t have a heart, you prick.” 

“Oh, it’s as black as the pits of hell, but it’s there – and your best friend has it. Maybe check his pocket.” 

John shifted. “That’s interesting, because I’ve never seen it.” 

“You’re witty today, aren’t you?” Jim asked with a crooked grin. 

“Where the fuck are you?” 

Jim’s voice went up an octave as he mocked the doctor. “Where are you? Where are you? I’m a short little man who’s not good enough for my best friend, so I need to get his boyfriend so he will be truly happy. I also wear grandma jumpers and look like a mouse.” Jim giggled. When John smartly ignored his goading, he sighed in annoyance. “ _Okay,”_ Mr. Serious. I have a big surprise for him and ‘absence makes the heart stronger’ will make it all the better. You wouldn’t understand because you’re sad and alone.” 

“I’m _not_ sad and I’m _not_ alone,” John snapped. 

“True. There’s always your right hand.” Jim tilted his head. “Unless you’re a lefty, or the type of person who changes so it’s easier to fantasize that it’s someone else…” His voice drifted off in thought. 

“When is this goddamn ‘surprise’?” John seethed with a clenched fist. 

“About twenty seconds.” 

John shot up. “What?” 

“Bye, pipsqueak.” 

“No!” John yelled, but the line went dead. He was about to call him again when music began to play. “What in blazes?” He left is room to find Sherlock standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed with a smirk. 

“It’s him,” he explained. “He’s up to something.” He clasped his hands behind his back. Clever bastard. 

“How do you know it’s him?” John asked. 

“It’s his song.” 

John knitted his brow. “No it’s not.” 

“It is now.” He began to search the apartment. “We have to find the source; that’s where the clue is.” 

They searched the apartment for several minutes as the 'Superstition' played on loop. Finally, Sherlock found Jim’s old iPod in the skull on the mantel. He pulled it out and turned it off. 

“Well?” John asked. 

“There’s a note.” Sherlock sat in his chair. Crossing his legs, he un folded the note and read out loud: 

_Sherlock,_

_The pieces were placed, the match was played, and I said ‘checkmate.’ You are me – the other side of the coin, and the light to my shadow. You have my dead black heart, but the game always comes first and the puppets must always dance. You truly did believe in something you didn’t understand. I will be back._

_See you later, alligator._

_P.S. Tell John to go fuck himself._

Although Sherlock’s voice cracked, he said, “John, go fuck yourself.” 

John threw his hands up. “What the hell, mate?” Sherlock silently read the paper. “Sherlock, I’m sorry,” he said softly. 

“No you’re not,” Sherlock answered quietly, his fingers laced in front of his nose. 

“Well…no. I mean that I’m sorry that you’re sad.” John sank into his chair. “But what was he talking about when he mentioned ‘the game’?” 

Sherlock shrugged, not even bothering to think. “I have no idea.” 

Before John could answer, there was a loud knock on the door. After a short glance at Sherlock, John stood up and opened the door. “Greg, what the hell are you doing here?” 

Greg Lestrade looked absolutely miserable as he and a team of the Scotland Yard and FBI agents stepped into 221B Baker Street. “We’re here to arrest Sherlock Holmes for the murder of Roger Andrews.” 

“Are you _insane?_ ” John yelled. 

Lestrade shook his head. “ _I_ know he didn’t do it, but his fingerprints were found on the murder weapon, which can be easily planted,” he added loudly. 

“But who would-” John stopped and his face went red with rage. He jabbed a finger at Sherlock. “ _HE_ did it! _HE_ set you up!” John was about to tell Lestrade about Jim when Sherlock stood up. 

_“Quiet,_ John. I’m sure there is a way I can get out of this. I _am_ Sherlock Holmes.” He straightened his jacket lapels with an aggressive tug. As Lestrade put the handcuffs on his wrists, he whispered, “Game on.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the nice comments and kudos. I wouldn't have gotten this far without them.
> 
> So for the last six chapters I was following the [ D.E.N.N.I.S. SYSTEM](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E6DWWZb7_7Q)  
>   
> 
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://www.dazzlejunction.com/generators/image-generator.php)  
>   
> 


	22. Epilogue

The sun was shining through the polished windows, bouncing off the walls in luminous colors. The place smelled of lavender and vanilla. Not a speck of dirt wafted in the air. 

The asylum had never been more frightening. 

As Sherlock walked down the hallway, his mind was whirring with the thousands of things that could lay at the end. It was over. The case, their relationship – it was all over. 

So why did everything look so goddamn lovely? 

Sherlock slipped off his coat, suddenly feeling over dressed in what felt like a spring morning. Folding it over his arm, he stepped in front of Jim’s cell and peaked through the window. 

It was a simple jail cell – clean with a lot of books and a bed. Everything was painted in beige and the walls were covered in breathtaking sketches. 

“I added those because I wanted to be like Hannibal Lecter.” Sherlock’s eyes shot to the ground. “I think the kids would say that I’m ‘extra.’” He gave Sherlock a cheeky grin as he made air quotations with his fingers. His brown eyes still sparkled even when he was locked away. 

This Jim was incredibly relaxed. He had hung his blazer on the back of his desk chair and leaned his back against the wall. With one knee drawn up and sleeves rolled back, he looked like the king of cool. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Why do you look so cheerful?” 

Jim raised an amused eyebrow. “Have you become stupid since I last saw you?” 

“No, but I have been walked out on and arrested-oh...” Sherlock’s eyes widened in realization and Jim smirked. 

Slowly, Sherlock opened the door. It groaned and shrieked as he pushed it, making the detective wince. When he finally let go, it slammed shut. Everything went eerily silent. 

Dream Jim patted the empty spot next to him. “Sit. They’re box seats. I paid through the nose to get these.” 

Sherlock chuckled as he slid down onto the floor. 

“So,” Jim turned to him, “how’s jail so far?” 

“Boring.” 

Resting his wrist on his knee, Jim said, “You know I didn’t ditch you.” He looked at the ceiling and shrugged. “Okay, I ditched you. But you knew deep down in there,” he poked the spot over Sherlock’s heart, “that it would not end well.” 

Sherlock grit his teeth. He didn’t want to admit it, but his logical side had been screaming at him constantly over the last few months and he would be a fool if he found Jim’s desertion so shocking. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said dryly. “Although I didn’t particularly like it. I put it in the vault.” 

Jim nodded with a pout as he took Sherlock’s words in. Finally, he clapped his hands together and smiled. “So what do you want to do while we wait for real me to come back?” 

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. “You’re coming back? I-I thought you just wanted to see me get out of jail.” 

Jim went slack jawed. “Um, duh? I left because I was afraid you would get boring. As long as I keep popping in and out, I won’t be able to quit you.” He scowled. “Unless you become ordinary. I’d kill you to ease your suffering.” 

Sherlock turned to Jim and raised an eyebrow. “Did you just compare killing me for being ordinary as pulling a plug for a suffering family member…or a dog?” 

Jim rolled his head around his shoulders and met Sherlock's eyes. “Do you want me to draw up a will so you know I’ll keep my promise?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Idiot. And yes, yes I would.” He turned. "And you just keep spinning your web."

Jim grinned like the Cheshire cat. "I caught you, Sherlock. You can't run from it." He crawled his his fingers up Sherlock's arm as if they were spider legs. "The orb-weaver never stops weaving."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you forget the actual ending of the last chapter.


End file.
